Three's a Crowd
by CGKrows
Summary: A very tired lumberer stumbles her way into Bree and unfortunately gets entangled in a plot involving a hobbit, his three buddies, and a very tall man. Another man can't decide whether he hates her or maybe wants under her dirty clothes. By sheer accident, the lumberer garners the attention of an elf. Desperately, the undercover Earther wishes they weren't all on the same quest.
1. Some Walk in the Rain, Others Get Wet

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Somewhere between yet another reread of the Tolkien collection in my room and the inspiration that are butch bisexual women, I somehow ended up creating this story. Please do review, I like opinions and constructive criticism.

" _Italics"_ when used in dialogue indicates foreign language(s) to Middle Earth. Normal text is Westron. _Italics_ when not used in a dialogue context is for emphasis. " **Bold** " is any Elvish dialect, because I'm lazy about writing out Sindarin/Quenya conversations.

I own nothing of Tolkien, though I may have his books. My creative additives, however, are mine.

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A very tired lumberer stumbles her way into Bree, and unfortunately gets entangled in a plot involving a hobbit, his three buddies, and a _very_ tall man. Another man, after she has found safety in Imladris, can't seem to decide whether he hates her very existence or wants under her clothes. By sheer accident, the lumberer garners the attention of an elf. Desperately, the undercover Earther wishes they weren't all on the same quest.

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 **Chapter One: Some Walk in the Rain, Others Get Wet**

* * *

It had been exactly seven hundred and seventy-five days since the woman found herself stuck _here_. And, to be painfully honest, she felt her new lifestyle wasn't as terrible as it could have turned out.

For the record, the woman hadn't been a completely useless individual prior to her… state of being stuck. She had three years of community college under her belt and one year at a top four-year university. She'd worked her ass off to get the education she wanted with very little money, and it was a testament to her work ethic that she managed to transfer with a high GPA as well as good standing. She was borderline middle-class, but that never stopped her. There had been a few father-daughter hunting trips, camping vacations, days when her father took her to the riverside and named off every plant and animal he could spot. Her parents had been born in the early fifties, giving her a somewhat more old-fashioned upbringing compared to her peers. Both her grandfathers and great-grandfathers had been brilliant men in their own ways; the woman's mother had three degrees and one minor. Her elder sibling, Maria, was an overachiever with a ruthless streak who eventually became a professor in Germany teaching undergraduates while simultaneously being worshipped by her German graduate TA's.

All of it helped in one way or another. Her father's happy babble about flora and fauna from all corners of the world helped with digging up edible roots, tubers, starch. She knew that peppermint was more than just a really great flavor to combine with chocolate. The woman was aware of what animal would try to steal her fire-cooked dinner and what animal would stay well away. She understood that dried herbs and spices, alongside animal hides, went a long way in making a considerable amount of coin. That one friend with a serious obsession with knives back in college who gifted to her a very small folded steel karambit one christmas party technically saved her life from four different encounters with highwaymen. And bless her very paranoid cousin Bartie, who had given her the combat knife he used throughout his tour in the Marines and taught her self-defense on weekends when she wasn't bogged down by schoolwork. _You fight to win, not to quit_ , he used to say. She networked with as many interested parties in this place as possible, as her mother always had, but she never gave away more than the most basic of personal information. Her keen memory helped her learn the languages of… _here_ , and remember the best places for lumber.

But not everything was pretty little flowers and cute puppies.

Let it be known that the young woman's father, though smart and quick-witted, had two learning disabilities and extreme ADHD. She had inherited all of the scholarly intelligence and common sense she possessed from both parents, but also inherited a processing disorder from her father and an overly aggressive personality from her mother. There wasn't some kind of big local library with air conditioning barely a block away to study in. Her memory was impeccable, but attempting to learn a language she didn't speak from people who didn't know English was not an easy process. All of it was done verbally and by trial-error imitation. The words would jumble in her disorderly mind at times, the grammatical rules switched around at random.

It didn't help that there were _Elves_ and _Dwarves_ and _Halflings_ , as if she had been somehow teleported into a Dungeons and Dragons campaign. The tall pointy-eared people had three different branches of an expansive language family, and half the time her processing disorder confused the Sindarin vocabulary with the Quenya vocabulary. There were even elves who spoke obscure, older dialects of the three interrelated languages. Because of this, she only spoke when spoken to, and understood conversations as long as none of the otherworldly folk used Avarin or Telerin words. The Hobbits—what the Halflings preferred to be called—were perhaps the best of the strange peoples that existed. They spoke no unique language, but spoke the common tongue of humans. The small folk loved a good party and good food. Understandably, they were a little shifty around "tall folk," but it didn't take long for her to warm up to them with good humor and her grandmother's recipes. In contrast, the stout, bearded folk did not share their exceedingly complex language or their culture idly; it took her an entire year to gain the trust of the Ered Luin dwarves before they even attempted to teach her some extremely basic phrases.

There weren't hotels or motels with working showers, let alone an existence of any sort of modern utility. She had sponge baths from wooden buckets of water, hot-drawn baths in copper tubs at inns, or simply risked infection by taking a dive in a river. Her clothes were made from handwoven linen, wool, animal furs for warm coats, and leather. Her aggressive nature started more fights than resolved them, and her unfinished majors in Anthropology and Linguistics didn't come in handy very often beyond language-learning and puzzling out cultural distinctions between races. Her art hobby did her more good, aiding in crafting things for personal use or money. Her disinterest at the idea of working as a barmaid, seamstress, or anything generally involved in being metaphorically chained to the beast called _Homemaking_ consequently lead her to pursuing the profession of woodworking. _Lumbering_.

Which, unfortunately but not unsurprisingly, resulted in more than a few strange looks and muttered words she had yet to translate. Not that she cared all too much. She wore men's clothes because _pants_ and the masculinity that it implied. She valued the freedom of the occupation despite how back-breaking the work proved to be. Her wild black hair was worn unlike the fashion of the woodsmen, not hanging down her spine as uncombed greasy horsehair, but tightly wrapped in a bun. At times she wished she could just wear her hair like she normally would have and walk around as who she was… except she would be even more estranged from society for her eccentrics. Or, under possible threat of mutilation.

And, to top it all off, she was a chicana with a name like _**Cameron Stevens**_.

She blamed her very, _very_ white father for that.

Nonetheless, the woman couldn't deny that her job as a lumberwoman could be quite profitable if she didn't waste resources. Within the first four weeks, following the initial emotional rollercoaster involving the Kübler-Ross model of the Five Stages of Grief, she took advantage of the curious looks and the mercy of her questionably crazy boarding house landlady. Cameron managed to make twenty-five silver pennies from ten chopped pines, twelve bundles of dried herbs, three pouches of spices, and one hand-sized carving of a mountain lion. Trees in certain parts of the forests, she noted, would grow with abandon in the night and be ready for felling by the morning. She took advantage of it with an inhuman fervor, and even started spreading seeds to help the mysterious process. Other such fantastical curiosities could be found in the forest, secrets only she seemed able to decipher, and young woman used such curiosities to her advantage. The local lumberers claimed she had the favor of the Valar, the gods of the general religion these people believed in, because they too noticed these strange occurrences and blamed it on her.

But honestly, the woman didn't believe that. Their world had elves and dwarves and hobbits; rapidly regrowing forests and the existence of magical forces didn't seem outside the realm of possibility!

Beyond that, after three months of being seen around the northern reaches of Arnor by Ered Luin dwarves, the Mithlond elves, and the men of Bree and Fornost, Cameron had the respect she deserved for working equally as hard as the other woodsmen. The title "swarthy-woman" because of her appearance (the humans were all ignorant racists) fell out of favor for _Satta-banâth_ , whatever that meant. She had a body thick with muscle in ways she never dreamed of having. By the time a year passed, she had a better control of Westron and the elves called her _Raegbund_. Which, unfortunately, only came about because one of them asked what Cameron meant in English. _Uh, it means "bent nose,"_ she had said. The response to that was a loud round of laughter and a permanent joke of an elvish nickname.

Now here Cameron was two years and about two months since ending up in Arda: trudging her way along as rain come down by the bucket full. The dirt road leading to Bree was flooded, turning into a nigh untraversable landmark of glompy mud and filthy water. Any stranger trying to reach Bree would be hard-pressed to see the way there. If anything, they would have better luck drowning in the large puddles by the wayside than tromping into town. Her boots were disgusting in their state, as if to prove her point, and her poor wool socks were soggy beyond hope. The oiled and fur-lined coat protecting her from the elements was no longer suitably resistant, the long fur chunky and beginning to knot together. The hood of the leather jerkin underneath weighed heavy upon her head from the amount of water it held.

Hell, everything was simply sopping wet. Perhaps the only thing not affected was the long combat knife strapped to the woman's leg, the folded karambit in her pocket, and the dwarvish axe resting on her shoulder. _Bless the unbelievable craftsmanship of the dwarves_ , Cameron thought fondly. Their crafts, if properly forged by one of their master weaponsmiths, could withstand mind-boggling amounts of abuse. The distinct dwarven design of the axe allowed it to double as a bludgeon and an axe, something that came in handy in a multitude of ways. Though, the crafter of the weapon was initially miffed that she'd used his beautiful gift of a weapon as a tree-felling item. Eventually, the stubborn old dwarf realized that it was more of a compliment than anything to hear his creation could both smash skulls _and_ cut down trees.

Either way, the intact status of the woman's weapon-tool could not be said for the chopped wood packed and tied against her rucksack. By the time it dried out, there'd be mold cultures and, with her horrible luck, powderpost beetles. The rations inside the rucksack were most likely unsalvageable too. _There goes the bread I was saving…_

What little hope Cameron did have was saved for the well-bundled herbs she collected, the animal furs she had stored away, the cured meats that were a profitable result of collecting hides, and the large deer antlers she had surprisingly found by tripping over. Her hides always sold well with the leather workers and the seamsters. The herbs were generally bought by any reasonably seasoned traveler with medical talent. Or, perhaps, a West Farthing hobbit with a penchant for interesting flavors in their tea. The meat was only sold to Butterbur, who never failed to pay quite handsomely for good cuts of flesh. At Wilhelmina's, a boarding house built at the edge of town by the guard wall and owned by an ornery—and arguably mad—widow with a soft spot for Cameron, there was plenty of wood kept in the shed. The unfortunate fate of the wood she carried thankfully wouldn't ruin business. The antlers she'd carve and sell to either the elves or the hobbits, as there were few in Bree who would be able to pay the full price for a luxury item made from pristine deer antler.

She really just needed to make it through the horrible weather.

"Ho' there!"

Cameron splashed to a stop, halting at the call of someone's voice behind her. It wasn't loud, as the heavy rainfall almost drowned out the disembodied yell. Awkwardly, she turned in place, mud and water churning around her boots. It was a struggle to see anything, with how weighted her hood was from rainwater.

"Who calls?!" She yelled, before saying to herself, " _This isn't a great time to stop for talking._ "

Splashing and roiling, wet cloaks slopping around, four petite individuals came into the lumberer's view. _Hobbits!_ The water was well up to their waists, their cloaks either half-floating on the muddy water or horribly sunk and stained. Their cloak hoods were glued to their curly-haired heads, of which three were vaguely lighter than one hobbit's dark mop. Clearly, if it were not raining, three of them were bright curly heads and the outlier to be a brunette. One of them had a lovely but soaking wet scarf about his neck. They looked scared, which made sense. A human trudging through the muddy water with a heavy pack and a bizarre dwarven axe? But clearly their needs outweighed how intimidating she appeared.

"I am quite sorry to bother you, sir, but we must get to Bree! Where is the road? The flooding has washed it away!" a hobbit spoke.

"If you could point us in the right direction, we would be ever so grateful!" said another, who stood next to his fellow. He was the hobbit wearing the scarf.

"I'm not a sir, but that is a... nice? For you to say," Cameron struggled to convey. She nearly forgot the word for _nice_ in Westron. "You are on the road, so that is very lucky for you. Go that way and you will reach the gate. Be… Beware? Beware the watcher of the gate. He is a right ass."

The scarf-wearing hobbit actually managed to snicker out a giggle at her last statement. Or maybe at her mildly choppy words. It made her sound simple, the lumberer had to admit. Maybe a little too cold, like her choppy words were thanks to the horrible weather. Either way the hobbit's friend nodded vigorously, and threw himself into a bow that nearly ended with his face down in the muddy water. The dark-haired hobbit and the last, more portly hobbit nodded their heads.

"Thank you then, Miss?" spoke the friend of the scarf-hobbit. His tone was sincere but also confused. Cameron nodded in confirmation, before turning back to the road.

"How can you be sure she ain't lyin' to us?" one of the hobbits failed to properly mutter when her back was facing them. She barely took a step before she stopped. _Rude._

"Sam!" a voice berated, before speaking up, "Forgive him! He is simply distrustful of those on the road."

Cameron turned her head to look back. "He is not wrong to be so. Unsavory folk hide among the trees. Sometimes. Highwaymen, you know?"

Their eyes darted around, and the woman chuckled at their expense. "None would be out tonight. Too much rain for any highwayman. You are safe, hobbits. Go on your urgent errand. Good night."

They took her words to heart. The four hobbits sloshed their way past her, tipping their heads as they went. She continued her trek, though with a little more speed. They were quick on their feet despite having the water up past their waists, and swiftly became nothing but shadows in the distance.

It was an hour later that Cameron came to stop before the western gate of Bree, completely soaked through and almost shivering with how numb she was from the cold rain. She paused to stretch out her fingers before unshouldering her axe. Tapping the blunt side against the gate thrice, Cameron didn't have to wait long. The racket it created was sharp, and it rattled the wood.

A moment later, old Harry slid back the peephole cover. He was holding a lamp in one hand, his face lit starkly in the dark. His visage was weathered and creased like crumpled parchment paper.

"What do you want, and where do you come from?" he questioned gruffly.

"Open the _damned_ door, Harry. It is Cameron."

"Is that you, Satta-banâth? Ferny's not too keen on you coming into town. I'm not either, this night! Can't let you in."

"Harry! Why do you dare?!" She yelled quickly, muddling up her exclamation. Sometimes her temper made her mental translations worse. "Is Bill Ferny the mayor, or have you been bought by a _fuckin' backstabber_? _What the hell?!_ " The weather was horrid, and she wasn't interested in his stupid games.

"Don't go throwin' those fowl nonsense words at me, lumberer!" he spat back. "Now you're not gonna' get in at all! Good night!"

"Wait, no—!"

The peephole slammed closed, and the vague light of Harry's lamp from under the gate door faded away. She stood alone in the rain, grasping her axe.

" _I've got half a mind to hack this gate to splinters_ ," Cameron muttered to herself in English. " _Damn_ Harry…"

It wasn't often that it happened, but Harry the watchman would at times barr her from entering Bree. She knew it had something to do with the title _Satta-banâth_ , which was either spoken with hate or as a plain fact. Her mother's Mexicana features weren't appreciated in the least either. That, and Harry was plainly a bigot from all sides. Suffering his intolerance for two years made her quite short-tempered with the old man.

The lumberer shouldered her axe again, tugging the leather thong holding it there tight, before walking alongside the guard wall. It was a mixture of wood and stone, not a wide enough wall for anyone to stand atop of. As a consequence, there were no sharp obstacles to skewer anything the would decide to perch there.

It also helped that there was a tree near enough to the wall she could climb.

With some fumbling, cursing in both English, Spanish, Westron, and near-falling, Cameron got herself up the tree. And across a thick limb. And plopped unceremoniously in the mud on the other side of the guard wall.

Now her pants needed washing, and the lower parts of her fur-lined coat did as well. Her axe served as a useful prop to stand, and with a few hurried steps, she was safely back in Bree. Cameron made her way down the main road, nodding to a few people but otherwise ignoring the rest. The muddy path curved and snaked erratically, similar to how old-style European towns often did. When she could see the eastern Gate of Bree, she took a turn to the left. A smaller cobbled street meandered off a few yards, houses and businesses passing by, before an isolated home stood in the shade of the guard wall.

It wasn't a large, inn-like boarding house like the Prancing Pony, where nearly all of the West seemed to rest for the night before venturing out into the wild that stretched eastwards. It was modestly sized, built with stone and very little wood. The open-air windows were shuttered closed, though light could be seen escaping between the gaps in the wood, and a large night lamp was lit over the doorway. There was a shed in the back, five bedrooms, a good kitchen, and a large common room. One of the immense stones that supported its foundation, near the door, was carved. On it, in the Westron alphabet, was **WILHELMINA'S SANCTUARY**.

This was where Cameron lived, and it was also the most unsought-after establishment in the entire town. As stated previously, the owner of the place was a widow who was… well, three marbles short of a full bag. To live at the Sanctuary was to live in seclusion, which could be a bad thing if you were a normal person. But seeing as the lumberwoman was not an average Breelander―and none of the establishments in town besides the Pony allowed anybody with her looks to live on the premises―the house was perfect.

Walking up the steps, the young woman knocked on the old, termite-eaten door. It'd seen better days, but Wilhelmina wouldn't let her craft a new one. Something about _taking away the powerful, aged energies that protected her hearth?_ It wasn't a declaration that was indicative of logical sense, but anybody who spent even five seconds with the widow knew better than to think she had even the slightest smidgeon of sense.

"Is that you, wreathed child of the far shores?" A voice warbled aloud from inside the boarding house, "If so, you may pass into my home! If not, then I wish thee a pleasant journey to the void where Morgoth eternally languishes!"

Cameron sighed heavily. "Thank you, Wilhelmina," she said in a droning and weary tone. Turning the knob, she shuffled inside as rainwater poured off her clothes in lake-sized puddles.

"Ah!" the widow trilled, "I see you saw the rain! Yes, fresh rain is very fortuitous. Yes indeed!" Then she spun around from her perch at the far side of the common room, hopping up and waddling over to Cameron.

Wilhelmina was, if one were to summarize her appearance in a short sentence, looked like a whimsical yet unconventional depiction of a hag. She was plump like any older woman past her sixties with lengthy dove grey hair that dragged against the creaking floorboards in a horribly knotted mess. The widow did not stand straight, but almost completely hunched over. Her face was a caricature. Beady dishwater-blue eyes, crooked yellowing teeth, hawkish nose, a pointy but boxy chin with an unflatteringly deep cleft, scraggly eyebrows, thin cracked lips, wrinkles befitting a month-old pile of dirty laundry. All she lacked was a wort. The clothes she wore appeared as though a series of haphazardly-sewn patchwork quilts had been appropriated from an amateur seamstress and transformed into dresses. Along with such an ensemble usually was a black threadbare bodice, necklaces strung with nonsensical trinkets, and ripped wool gloves to partially cover Wilhelmina's arthritic fingers.

"Now have you brought anything for me, hmm? A fine silver fox fur? The antlers of a forgotten forest lord? The seeds from the palest trees with blooms as pure as starlight?"

The lumberwoman mentally considered her haul of goods, debating what part of it would suffice in bribing her landlady into leaving her alone for the next week or so. The options were limited.

"Fresh rainwater trapped in pine wood?"

"No!" The hag screeched, "A horrible gift! Am I so disliked that I must accept such a dishonorable offering? I think not!"

"Then…" Cameron trailed off, reaching back an arm. "What about an antler of a forest lord? An honorable gift?"

The widow's thoughtful hum was as shrill as a lark screaming at dawn before her gnarled hands shot out and snatched the sizable deer antler away. "Though it may not come from a forgotten lord of the wood, it is still an antler of a grand beast! I thank thee, ye child wreathed in power from the farthest coasts, for such fine a boon!" She took a jittery, wobbly bow, which caused a cloud of short black hairs to fly off her person and float on the damp air. It constantly littered Wilhelmina's person, no matter what time of day it was.

Why?

Because the crone raised a burgeoning _clutter of cats_ inside her establishment like the poster child of crazy old medieval ladies she was. How many cats? Twenty-five, not counting the new litter of kittens that were snoozing in a wicker basket by the fireplace in the common room. If counted, the total would be thirty-two. How many of them were black cats? About eighty-nine percent. Six black toms were already attempting to swarm Cameron's legs, but the lake-sized puddles at her feet warded the felines off. Two cats, one black and the other vibrantly ginger, popped their heads up from under the widow's skirts like nosy little weasels.

The lumberwoman was in desperate need of a drink. And dry clothes. And some fraction of sanity in an insane environment, where old women gave her nonsensical titles and demanded gifts.

Before Wilhelmina could struggle her way back to a more natural hunchbacked position, Cameron absconded upstairs to her room. The widow's quarters were downstairs, while the four tenant rooms were on the second floor. Hers was closest to the staircase, with a window that faced the street. It was perhaps the smallest of the four rooms, with only enough space to fit a bed, two small wooden chairs, and a petite cast-iron stove. On the walls the lumberer hung various carved works of her own making, though not enough to cover up all the wood and stone. Just a few things here and there, nothing extremely fancy.

Quickly, Cameron went about shedding her rucksack and unpacking her goods. The furs were laid out on the bed, the herbs hung from the ceiling over the slow-burning stove, and she leaned the last remaining antler in a corner. The young woman eyed her disgusting wet clothes forlornly, before deciding she'd scrape off the mud and grime downstairs. She didn't like collecting dirt in her tiny room if she could help it. The meat was repacked, and the lumberer prayed she could get a free meal and a pint out of selling it to Butterbur at the Pony. The useless wet wood she would discard someplace. She didn't need powderpost beetles _and_ termites eating at the Sanctuary.

With that she gathered her things for the Pony, tightened the axe's leather thong, and locked the door. Her neighbors weren't exactly bad people, but she didn't trust them not to steal something for their personal gain; she generally got bad, sketchy vibes from them. Tromping down the stairs, Cameron made sure not to stop walking toward the front door; otherwise Wilhelmina and her battalion of cats wouldn't let her leave without a madcap discussion on water spirits or long-dead royalty.

Upon exiting, the lumberwoman scrambled to escape the unrelenting storm. Seeing as the Sanctuary was on the edge of town and the Pony was basically the centerpiece for the entire town's sprawl, it was not a very successful scramble at all. She nearly slipped twice, and almost found herself run over by an ox cart about two yards away from the inn. _I hate the rain. I hate people._

The Prancing Pony—ever the dependable establishment for Eriador's weary travelers—had a roaring fire burning in its impressive fireplace, thankfully. From the moment she stepped in, Cameron immediately felt the water begin to evaporate off her clothes. She gave a happy sigh before strolling up to the main counter.

"Hello. Butterbur here?"

The fellow behind the counter, a stern-looking man with an ungroomed beard, shook his head. "With this storm raging outside, half of Bree's decided to have a hot meal at the Pony! Butterbur's fluttering about like an overworked kitchen wife."

There went her free meal. "When you see him next, say Cam is here with meat to sell. And," she said, rifling through her pockets for the correct number of coins, "For a meal."

The man nodded, taking the money. "Good luck trying to find a seat."

Turning away from the counter, Cameron could see that _packed_ would be an understatement. _Full to bursting_ was much more befitting, as all but one table was completely crowded with bodies. And, admittedly, she wasn't keen to sit at the lone table herself. She had nothing against the darkly-dressed wanderers the locals called rangers. They passed quietly through Bree, buying herbs when the young woman had a decent supply and never judged her by face like the locals. But from what the Breelanders gossiped, they also were the ones who dispatched highwayman and brigands with severe prejudice. This one didn't appear to want any company but his own, playing into the suspicions of the townsfolk with the way he stretched himself out across an entire bench like one of Wilhelmina's gangly felines. He smoked from a carved wood pipe with his hood hiding his face, silent and foreboding; anyone who actually thought he wanted to socialize might just be skewered by the daunting longsword displayed blatantly at his hip! _No thanks._

Eventually she settled on a table occupied by four hobbits, hoping the group would be welcoming of her company. Other than their table, there was only one other possibility. But a table of Ered Luin dwarrow miners, bitching about taxes? _Yeah, nobody in their right mind wants to be stuck at a table of angry, incensed dwarves_.

Walking over to the halfling table, the young woman quickly offered a short bow. "Hello. May I sit? Not much room at the Pony tonight," she said.

The four little faces looked up at her in surprise. "Why, it's the miss from the road!"

"Hello again, Miss!"

Cameron blinked owlishly. Three curly golden heads of hair, one dark brunette head. One was a little rotund, another had a lovely green scarf. _It's those hobbits again!_

"Oh, hello!" she spoke awkwardly. "I did not think I would see you all again."

"And walk through this terrible rain? Not on my life!" responded one of them.

"You're welcome to sit down, Miss," said the dark-haired hobbit. "A familiar face is comforting in an inn full of big folk."

She smiled, taking a spot on a bench between the the scarf-wearing halfling and his equally jovial friend. "Not all big folk. Dwarrow too."

"True," said that jovial hobbit. "But my cousin Frodo here isn't his uncle, who has a reasonable affinity for conversing with dwarves. No, we're perfectly fine with the company of a miss such as yourself."

Cameron couldn't help but laugh. "Oh really? The company of a Satta-banâth? Not many want it."

"What's what? What're a Satta-banâth? _"_ wondered the portly one.

She shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. My Westron is… not the best? It is not my native tongue."

The hobbits made faces. "I was born and raised with Westron, and I've never heard such a word before!" said the one wearing the scarf.

"Perhaps it's from one of the big folk's languages," suggested the jovial halfling.

"That seems likely, Merry," said the brunette to his fellow.

Cameron wanted to bang her head on the table. "Another language? I struggle to understand this one!"

"You're not so bad," said the rotund hobbit.

"Thank you…?"

"Samwise Gamgee, Miss," he offered his hand, which she happily shook. The rest of the hobbits rushed―as their manners demanded of them―to introduce themselves as well.

"Peregrin Took, but I go by Pippin," the scarf-wearing hobbit declared.

"Meriadoc Brandybuck; call me Merry," piped up his companionable friend.

"Frodo Ba-Underhill," said the brunette, somewhat nervously. The lumberer raised a brow at his slight verbal stumble, but didn't draw attention to it.

"Cameron Stevens, lumberer."

Pippin tried to not appear rude, but he clearly was confused. "Cameron? Sounds like a man's name to me."

Merry smacked his arm in reproach. "Pippin!"

"I-It's a lovely name!" Pippin added quickly.

The lumberwoman found herself laughing again. "It is fine! Your honesty is… What is the word? Refreshing?"

Pippin smiled sheepishly. It was in that same moment that Butterbur made himself known, towering over the hobbits and Cameron. Normally he'd not be so tall compared to the young woman, but that's what she got for sitting at a hobbit table. It was a miracle her legs fit underneath.

"Oh, Cam! You're a right lovely sight to see! Arnie told me y'ur sellin' meat, and we're in desperate straits for it! Look at all the mouths to feed!" the innkeeper cried, his heavy arms gesturing wildly to the bustle around them.

The young woman unshouldered her axe, casually passing it off to Pippin as she pulled her pack off her back. He struggled to hold it aloft. She withdrew the wrapped meats with a practiced hand, laying them out on the table for Butterbur's preview.

"Seven venison, twelve coney, one pheasant, one fox."

Her present company boggled at the sight. Merry's wide-eyed gaze darted back and forth between the impressive meat selection and her rucksack. "How'd you manage to fit all of that in there?" he questioned in shock.

She gave him a blank stare. "Magic."

Butterbur laughed, shaking his head. "Always a joker, this one! I'll take the whole lot, Cam. Did you pay for your meal already? I'll return your coin to you, and pay your prices."

Cameron immediately brightened. So she did have a free meal in her future after all! That man always was a generous soul. Not that she can blame him for overpaying her. Unlike the amateur poachers in the area, she could actually provide something more than one or two shoddy-looking plucked pheasants.

"Thank you much, Barliman!"

Butterbur nodded, idly correcting, "Thank you very much, Cameron. Don't forget the very."

"I will have it eventually," she grumbled as the innkeeper wandered off. Pippin just about threw her axe at her, the weight of it was too much for the hobbit. "I know the words, I do! I just have a hard time ordering them at times."

"How many languages do you know, Cameron?" Frodo wondered.

And so the young woman found herself embroiled in a surprisingly deep conversation about Ardan languages despite her verbal stumbles. She was pleasantly surprised that she didn't correct herself as much after twenty minutes of continuous discussion with Frodo. Perhaps she just needed to practice more often. The lumberer didn't exactly have many people she conversed with, which probably explained why her Elvish was better than her Common. They talked to her the most, while most other people would rather ignore her existence; hobbits not included. And, unfortunately, she only learned enough Khuzdul to be equal to a five year-old dwarfling so far. For an Anthropology and Linguistics student, she was kind of pathetic.

As the night wore on, Cameron got to know her hobbit companions quite well over a few pints and a hardy meal. Butterbur had one of his servers―a halfling server named Nob―collect the wrapped meats from their table. It took the poor fellow a number of trips, but he eventually transported them all. Not long after, he brought the ale. Merry and Pippin were especially delighted in pint-sized flagons placed before them, which was amusing to watch. The pair of curly-haired blondes were like comedic geniuses, the way they bickered and joked. _Medieval stand-up_. Sam was a sweet, well-intentioned person. He ate the most out of them all, and had a habit of mothering anyone within reach. That did not exclude Frodo, who sometimes got so wrapped up in talking with her he'd forget to eat his food. It was obvious the dark-haired hobbit was very scholarly, what with his well-worded questions and equally interesting opinions. He was gracious in explaining and correcting her Sindarin, which Cameron deeply appreciated. Sam expressed an interest in hearing about her daily life in the forests of Fornost, explaining his job as a gardener in the Shire. Merry and Pippin took it upon themselves to dramatically describe their homeland to the far west in exceptional satirical detail. Frodo asked after where she originated, which caused Cameron a great deal of frustration in trying to teach the brunette halfling how to pronounce the _United States of America_ without butchering the English. She forgot about the sorry state of her mud-stained pants and coat, forgot the exasperating encounter with her landlord.

But she shouldn't have forgot about Bill Ferny, and the fact he'd attempted to ban her from entering Bree.

"Why look who it is!" a voice boasted, "It's the dirt woman of Bree!"

Cameron just barely managed to hold herself back from leaping off the bench and drawing her cousin Bartie's combat knife. The cheer the hobbits had been reveling in had immediately cut off upon the appearance of the overly-greasy Man looming over their table.

The young woman took a slow, steadying breath. "Hello, Bill," she said, turning to look up at him with the brightest smile she could force upon her face. It was more a forbidding show of teeth than a look of cheer. "Finally emerged from the pig pens to walk amongst the normal folk?"

Ferny sneered in return. "Have ya' washed y'ur face recently, ya' bullish wench? Cuz' y'ur as filthy as one of them swarthy bastards that go stealin' from tha' stables," he spat.

Her jaw tightened, her false smile souring into an angry grimace. "What is the problem, Ferny? Did you think Harry could stop me from entering Bree? I live here; I will not be kept away."

"As if anyone in Bree wants ye' here!" he bellowed, his spit and hot breath hitting her face. Her face wrinkled in utter disgust. "Kip saw ya' hop tha' wall. If ye' don't leave this town by midnight, you'll git what ya' been askin' for!"

A few heads were beginning to turn at the confrontation, at Ferny's thinly-veiled threat of assault. The dwarrow took one look at the man, took a look at her person wearing an dwarven axe on her back. One of them was reaching for his mattock, a storm beginning to brew in his eyes. _Let it be known that a dwarf will always defend a dwarf-friend, even if they don't know the individual personally._ A handful of human patrons watched nervously, either uncomfortable at the idea of stopping Bill or uncomfortable at the idea of standing up for Cameron. In the far corner, the foreboding ranger pulled his pipe away, hood tipping in their direction. The four hobbits at their table appeared afraid. Frodo was especially nervous with all the eyes that were on their little drama.

"You do not scare me, Bill Ferny. If you want a fight, I will be here all night," she said, staring him straight in the eyes. "And, if you are too afraid I will kill you, Bill Ferny, I invite you to bring… what do people call him? The squinty-eyed Southerner? I welcome the challenge."

Ferny's face turned exponentially red with each word Cameron spoke. By the time she finished, he was the color of a chili pepper. Or at least, that's what she saw before the man _grabbed their table and violently flipped it_.

Hobbits went flying. What was left of the food and ale dumped onto the ground. Cameron went tumbling, and nearly took a vicious boot to the nose. The dwarrow screamed out a collective _Du Bekar!_ before charging at Ferny. Half-drunk patrons looking for a tussle threw themselves into the mosh pit that seemed to bellow Khuzdul. Barliman Butterbur's expression was horrified, as were the remaining guests of the Pony that watched the chaos unfold. The lumberer scrambled safely out of the danger zone, only to see Frodo grabbed and flung by a nameless drunkard. He let out a panicked cry, echoed by his friends. Desperately, Cameron dashed forward to try and catch him.

He flew through the air, cloak fluttering around his body. The trajectory of his fall was destined to be the hard floorboards. The young woman stretched out her arms. Though the light in the Prancing Pony wasn't the best, Cameron managed to spot the faintest flash of gold slip out of Frodo's vest pocket. The hobbit crashed to the ground, his hand flailing out wildly. Another flicker of gold, a soft clink of metal hitting wood―

Frodo Underhill vanished.

The lone ranger threw himself into motion.


	2. Strider with the Longshanks

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I write novels for chapters, I'm sorry. Thank you to those select few who've reviewed! You give me the energy to write these novel-length chapters. Keep it up, though! More feedback is more happiness for me which is more chapters for you all!

" _Italics"_ when used in dialogue indicates foreign language(s) to Middle Earth. Normal text is Westron. _Italics_ when not used in a dialogue context is for emphasis. " **Bold** " is any Elvish dialect, because I'm lazy about writing out Sindarin/Quenya conversations. If I ever use the word "God/ **God** " outside of italics, know that it's just an equivalent word for Eru in context.

* * *

 **Chapter Two: Strider with the Longshanks**

* * *

It is hard to properly reconcile―mentally and visually―with witnessing someone disappear.

Not disappearing in the way that a friend would wander off and wouldn't be where you last saw them. Cameron, like any millennial who had a large shopping mall in their hometown as they grew up, wasn't a stranger to that sort of situation. You want to walk into the Apple Store to goof around with the technology on the tables, but your buddy wants boba and can't be bothered to say anything. It happened. But to disappear into thin air? _Poof?_ Seeing such a thing happen was akin to seeing a seven-legged frog with three eyes: It just wasn't natural.

While Cameron stood there dumbly in the Prancing Pony, staring at the empty space where Frodo had fallen, she wondered if that's what it had been like for the pedestrians back in her world. The young woman had been on a bus going home, surrounded by commuters. One moment she'd been attempting to text her then-girlfriend about a date later that week; next moment she'd been surrounded by pine trees, sitting atop a weathered boulder as big as a full size couch. Did the business man sitting next to her startle, curse in shock? Did the kids behind her seat tweet about the freak occurrence, maybe trend for an hour? Was her then-girlfriend upset she just up and disappeared off the face of the Earth? The lumberwoman didn't have much time to ponder it before the onlookers started losing their minds at seeing vanishing hobbits… and the ranger barreled head-long into her like a linebacker.

" _Jesus Christ!_ " she yelled in English, before thrusting the palm of her hand hard against what she hoped was his diaphragm. By chance, she managed to land the hit, knocking the air out of him. Clearly he hadn't expected it. The woman had the advantage, and took it. With some haphazard grappling, she threw him to the ground, landing atop him. The lumberer was quick to draw her combat knife strapped to her thigh.

"What do you want, ranger?!"

Cameron barely had a warning, the tensing of his torso the only hint she received. She didn't maintain her control for more than twenty seconds before he bucked his hips violently. Caught off-guard, the ranger saw his chance and smashed her wrist against the hardwood floor. The combat knife abandoned her for the ranger, who held her to the floor with his full weight pressing down and a large hand firmly around her neck. His hood barely hid his face now, having been partially dislodged, yet it held on just enough so she couldn't see his eyes. Up close, the lumberwoman realized the ranger was tall. Bill Ferny could only _attempt_ to loom over her when she was sitting down. This man could loom over her in any situation. _What is he, six-four?_

"Why are you in the company of four hobbits from the Shire?" he demanded.

"What do you care?" she retorted, frustrated and blustering. "If you ask me this because of my skin, you are just as ignorant as the rest of the Men in this town!"

For all her troubles, Bartie's blade was held just under the young woman's jaw. Cameron couldn't stop herself from flinching.

"Answer me!" the ranger demanded again, louder. The drunks, Ferny, and the dwarrow were still fighting, even more riotous than before.

"They are the only race beyond the elves of Mithlond who happily welcome my presence, you fool! What, do you think it is easy to make friends in Bree? These folk spit on me and call me Satta-banâth with all the dislike that can be mustered! There are few who I can call friends, and hobbits are one!"

The ranger seemed to pause at the utterance of elves and Satta-banâth, though he didn't let Cameron free.

"Then Bill Ferny's cruelty was not false," he stated.

"No. There have been nights when he tells to gatekeeper to ban me from entering. Tonight he did it again. The man does not hide his disdain for me. He is… " she struggled to find the right words. "A _disgusting, pig-headed, shit-stewing motherfucker_ " was what she settled for. The venom in her voice must have clearly hinted at the meaning of her foreign English, because he pulled his hand away from her throat.

"Though I know not what tongue you speak, I feel I understand how this night carried on as it did. Forgive me for my harsh treatment."

Cameron huffed. "It is fine," she said shortly. "Rangers fight injustice with great prejudice, yes? I am simply unlucky for looking as I do." The last comment was delivered with no little amount of bitterness.

Lifting himself off her person and pulling her off the floor, he skillfully flipped Bartie's knife in his hand to offer it back. "And I fear that your lack of luck may continue," he said regretfully. "Ferny is not to be so quickly underestimated; dishonor makes for spies. If he wants you dead this night, he will do all in his power to have such occur. You and the four hobbits are in grave peril."

"What?!" she said, flabbergasted. "Ferny, a spy? And why are the hobbits in danger? The little people mean no harm to others! I do not understand!"

But then she remembered Frodo disappeared, and her thoughts abruptly sidetracked. "Oh _fuck_ , Frodo!"

Without another word, the lumberwoman immediately dashed back into the chaos. She dodged flying axes, wild elbows and fists, steel-toed boots. The ranger trailed right after her into the fray, looking under tables and rescuing panicked patrons along the way. When she came upon the upturned hobbit-sized table, she found Sam had wisely taken cover behind it. He smelled heavily of spilt ale and cheese.

"Samwise!" Cameron called, "Where is Merry and Pippin?"

"I dunno, Miss Stevens! When that Man tossed the table, I got stuck under it! I lost sight of Mister Frodo! Oh, Gandalf will surely roast me!" he nearly wailed, with all the distress an over-weary matron would have.

"Come, Sam!" she said, grabbing his arm. "Now is not a time to give into fear!"

And then the young woman was off, dragging the portly hobbit right along beside her. She just managed to maneuver her way out of the fighting once again when she saw the ranger yank a horribly skittish Frodo from under a table by the staircase leading up toward the Pony's second floor full of guest rooms. Pippin and Merry popped up two tables over, yelling at the ranger for manhandling their dark-haired companion. As she and Sam neared, the man berated the halfling in his grasp and turned to her.

"You draw far too much attention to yourself, Mr. Underhill. Come with me, Satta-banâth!"

Which lead Cameron to rush up the stairs after the long-legged man, four hobbits following them like dysfunctional, terrified ducklings. Down the hall, the ranger unlocked a door and shoved it open. They quickly piled inside. He locked the door behind them before dashing around the room in a frenzy.

"I do not understand," the woman voiced in the silence. She hated that her understanding of common limited her ability to express her feelings, but perhaps simplicity would work well enough in her favor.

"You would not," he said, putting out candles by the windows. "You have been the unwilling captive of this madness; you have walked into a plot that you have no hope of understanding."

"Then speak! My words in Common may be poor, but my knowledge is great! I am now a part of this, wanted or not!" she commanded. _Really, if he understood English!_ She'd rip him to shreds.

The ranger considered her for a quiet moment, before pausing in his frantic movement. He drew back his hood. Cameron blinked.

Whoever stood before her―ranger or not―was shockingly attractive. Ever since she ended up here, she'd not seen any reason to go hunting for romance of any kind. The young woman was too afraid of what would happen if she was seen flirting with another woman, let alone seen taking one to bed. Men included, seeing as her appearance and demeanor made her too _other_. The medieval times on Earth were very much against any form of non-straight interaction, so Cameron doubted Arda was any different. And, there were clearly very serious lines drawn between the white and brown population. From what she saw, there were rarely any with her skin color visiting Bree. And those few? They were not treated well or thought of fondly. The lumberwoman didn't have enough knowledge of Arda's politics or culture to understand why those divides were so, or if it was simply plain bigotry.

But looking at the ranger, in that moment, made her reconsider her reservations. Rugged looks, steel-blue eyes, strong yet reasonably aristocratic features. Near-black brunette hair, decent lips. The man looked like he'd emerged from one of those old stained glass windows with long-haired saints. Except dirtier and with scruff. If she gave him a thorough bath and a silk robe, Cameron would debate dragging the man under the sheets. Maybe. _This is what happens when I go for over two years without getting laid_.

"I know what Mr. Underhill carries. It is no mere trinket." he said, bringing her back from her wild thoughts. "I can avoid being seen if I wish. But to disappear entirely? That is a rare gift."

Frodo stiffened, even when surrounded on all sides by his friends. "Who are you?"

The man face contorted, brow furrowing and mouth twisting. "Are you frightened?"

Because hobbits were honest to a fault, Frodo responded. "Yes," he said, hushed.

"Not nearly frightened enough! I know what hunts you and your kin."

That caused all of the halflings to freeze up in fear. Cameron was beyond lost.

"I ask again: speak!" she said loudly, moving in front of the hobbits to meet the man's intense gaze squarely. They stared for a long beat, neither budging.

"This one," the ranger began, gesturing to Frodo, "Bears a ring with power too great to be a mere charm. The Enemy, the darkness to the east, desires to reclaim this ring. It has sent nine black riders to hunt down a hobbit of the Shire, one called Baggins. It was requested of me by Gandalf the Grey to bring these hobbits to safety in Rivendell, before the black riders can find them."

Her face was a study in befuddlement. "Gandalf the Grey? Black riders? The Enemy?" she questioned, "I do not understand. Speak again."

"Gandalf is a wizard, one of five that protect Middle Earth. As for the black riders…" he trailed off. "The Enemy has plagued this land for many generations. He is called Sauron by many, the Deceiver by others. The black riders are a result of his treachery. They were once nine Men, Satta-banâth _,_ great kings of Men. Then the Deceiver gave to them nine rings of power; blinded by their greed, they took them without question. One by one, they fell into darkness. Now they are nothing but slaves to his will. They are neither living nor dead, the Nazgul, and the ring calls to them! They will not stop hunting these hobbits until it is reclaimed. Do you understand?"

Cameron found it strangely kind of the man to bother with explaining everything. And it did help her better understand the situation, though the questions multiplied in her mind. Who was Sauron, this Deceiver? Was he a man, a ghost, a monster come to life? Arda was so strange and fantastical, in some ways. Where was the line between fact and fiction?

"How am I in danger? What have I done to be at risk? I am nothing but a foreign woman with an unloved title."

"You have been seen speaking with these hobbits, have you not? For I saw you, as did everyone downstairs. They saw you rush to one of them, only for the hobbit to vanish in plain sight. Many witnessed that as well. Though he hid his name, the hobbit who bears the name Baggins has been exposed. Bill Ferny is an opportunistic cur, and he will tell the Nine in the way spies do. He will do so in the hopes they will kill you as he desires. After all, did he not wish you dead this night? You are no safer than them."

The young woman felt horribly ill at the thought. Terrified too, in ways she hadn't been since she realized Earth was barred from her. What could she do? She was a lumberer. Yes, she could seemingly grow pine trees from near-nothing in a single night, and perhaps a few other very minor things, but what good was that against _the fucking undead_? Was it too late for her to invest in Catholicism like her mother wanted? Without thought, she hastily crossed herself.

"But who are you? Gandalf made no mention of you!" Sam suddenly spoke.

"I have many names and many titles, but you may call me Strider. Gandalf told me he left a letter for you with Barliman. Am I to assume the innkeeper forgot it?"

"A letter?! The man only told us Gandalf wasn't here! How horribly unhelpful!" Merry declared, displeased.

"I would read this letter before I accepted your help―" Frodo said.

A round of knocks pounded against the door, cutting off the conversation. The hobbits immediately scrambled, hiding behind the bed. Cameron drew her combat knife again, and the ranger drew his sword. Warily, he approached the door. He nodded to the lumberer, she nodded in kind. Strider threw it open.

Ironically, it was Barliman Butterbur himself. And a hobbit, who Cameron vaguely recognized as Nob. Both people looked distressed, then ever more distressed at the sight of drawn weaponry.

"Peace, ranger!" the innkeeper cried. "Y'ur not in trouble! It's just… I remembered I was needin' ta deliver a letter, and I think it's meant for one of the hobbits that's with Cam. I saw you rush up here with 'er, so I thought to look here for them. I'm not sure, 'course, but I think it is." A folded piece of parchment was offered, and Frodo suddenly appeared to take it. The front of it, written in Westron, was the name _Baggins_.

Cameron immediately turned on the innkeeper. "You have not told anyone about this, or the name upon it?" she hurriedly asked.

"Not a soul," Butterbur replied. "I plum forgot about it until now, the Pony's been so busy!"

"I reminded him," Nob added. "Judging from what happened tonight in the common room, I assumed discretion would be best."

"Did the hobbits rent rooms for the night?" Strider said.

"Yessir, they did."

"Stuff the beds, and quickly," the ranger requested urgently, "There are dark things coming to Bree and secrecy must be kept."

Butterbur looked hesitant, as did the hobbit Nob. Cameron knew their wariness of rangers held them back. They didn't have any time to dawdle, not if their lives were at stake.

"Do it, Butterbur," she said. The innkeeper blinked.

"Cam?"

"Do you want four dead hobbits in the Pony? Very bad for business," she said pointedly.

As the words sunk in, the innkeeper paled. "Nob, prepare the rooms! I've got to tell the cook to take the night off!"

The halfling ran in a panic and Barliman barely waved a hand goodnight before stomping down the hallway out of sight. Strider locked the door again. Merry, Pippin, and Sam were now reading Gandalf's letter over Frodo's shoulder.

"Your name is Cam?" the ranger wondered.

She blinked at the very tame question. "Err, no. My name is Cameron Stevens. Butterbur calls me Cam; it is easier."

He nodded his head, bowing slightly. "A pleasure to know your name at last, Satta-banâth."

The woman could barely contain herself any longer. "Do you know what that means? Satta-banâth? It is not Westron, nor Elvish. What tongue is it? I saw the way you hesitated when I spoke it."

He made a face, one that was somewhat trepidatious. "I do not mean to offend you by using it. For some, I suppose, it is an insult. For others, it is simply a title. It is Andûnaic, the language of Men from Númenor. Some of their words are used by those who speak Westron, the common speech. It roughly translates to mean 'twice-wife'; for women who bed women or men who would bed their fellows."

She stared, eyes wide. _How did any of the Breelanders know?!_

"Why would they call me this!?" Cameron yelled. "I have not bedded women or men while living here! I kept to myself!"

The ranger didn't look like he wanted to answer. He clearly didn't want to insult her and appeared a slightly uncomfortable. Pippin, however, has no such qualms.

"Well, we did think you were a man when we met you on the road," mused the scarf-wearing hobbit. "Very mannish, with your clothes and axes and things."

"Pippin!" admonished Merry.

 _Perhaps I wasn't as unobtrusive as I thought_...

" _Fucking fantastic_ ," she griped, expression souring. "No matter. We do not have time. Are we all staying here? For I have many doubts."

Strider raised a brow. "Where would you have us go? Outside, where the black riders may find us?"

"Would you stay here? Truly? What will the undead do when they find bed feathers, not hobbits? Will they not search this inn?"

"Where would you have us go?" he repeated, disbelieving.

"The Sanctuary, on the eastern edge of Bree. It stands near the guarding wall. None would look for us there. Ferny knows I live there, but none can pass through the door without leave. The widow who owns it is…. Bizarre? I believe that is the word." If she could speak English, she'd say _possibly psychotic_ in place of _bizarre._

"Bizarre," he repeated doubtfully.

Cameron couldn't help but roll her eyes. "Oh, _for God's sake_ , we do not have time for your idling! I refuse to die! Tonight! At all! So yay or nay, or I will leave you all here!"

The hobbits immediately scrambled to the door. Strider, knowing defeat, sighed.

"Good," she said, "Now unlock it so we may leave."

* * *

Many minutes later, the lumberwoman found herself dashing across the main road in Bree. The rain had finally stopped, but the earth below her feet was nothing but sludge. Frodo was at her heels along with the other three halflings. Strider held up the rear of their scampering conga line, his hood drawn once more. He clearly disapproved of this plan, but Cameron felt there was no better place to hide. If that damn door of Wilhelmina's didn't utilize its "powerful, aged energies" to keep the black riders out, then at least there would be a small army of black cats to attack them.

Yet admittedly, they had been somewhat slow in leaving the Pony. Butterbur had insisted he give them supplies, while Strider attempted to politely yet firmly refuse. The hobbits had taken too long to collect their things from their room, and Arnie handed over a hefty bag of coin given to him by Butterbur for the meats. Cameron accepted, anxious. _We should have absconded without looking back_.

Cameron could feel something on the air. Or maybe it wasn't the air, but the world around her. There was a heaviness in her chest, an alien sensation that hinted at a dark foreboding that wasn't normal. Strider kept glancing at her every time she rubbed her hand over her heart, so he didn't feel what she was experiencing. Was it another weird occurrence happening to her, like the miraculous growing trees? The lumberer could only assume it was, and that perhaps it was a warning. _The Nazgul are getting closer to Bree, and we need to be at Wilhelmina's right the hell now!_

Thankfully, the termite-ridden door was in sight. The night lamp was alight, and candlelight filtered in from the closed shutters. Faintly, she could hear some of the cats meowing. Rushing ahead, Cameron knocked urgently on the old wood.

"Wilhelmina, let me pass!"

There was a crash, a loud symphony of yowling felines. She could hear the crone's shuffling feet on the floorboards.

"You back again, child? Have thee another antler to make me a pair?"

"I do not, but I have friends who seek shelter and must pass inside. Do we have leave to enter?"

"Company?" she trilled. "Hmm, they may pass. But not the white wraiths crowned in thorns, for I have no love for them! Hurry in!"

Cameron didn't hesitate, the door flying to hit the inside wall of the boarding house. Three black cats jumped in surprise. She turned, "Quick! In here now! Mind the cats!"

"Cats?" Pippin said confusedly, before being shoved inside by Strider. Once they all passed the threshold, the young woman stepped back onto the porch. Without thinking of the consequences, she waved a hand sharply at the night lamp. It extinguished.

"Ah, showing off your foreign magic, my dearie? Such a talented wreathed child you are!" Wilhelmina crowed. The hobbits stared at the crone in morbid fascination and some degree of horror. They were swamped with cats, mewling and purring. Frodo was bewildered, but finding himself stroking the back of a ginger tom. Strider was stiff and defensive, eyes wide as he looked at the lumberer.

He saw her snuff out the light.

"Magic? What devilry is this?" he questioned, hand on the hilt of his longsword.

Cameron wanted to hit the crazy old lady over the head with her axe. She slammed the door, shooing cats away and only lightly patting a handful of them on the head.

"I know a few tricks, no more than that," she stated, brooking no argument.

"HA! Tricks indeed!" cackled the hag, heedless of her tenant. "The pretty young wreathed child from the farthest coasts, steeped in powers not so idly comprehended! Tricks… Bah!"

The lumberwoman huffed, becoming agitated at Wilhelmina's babbling. "They are tricks. I can plant a seed to grow tall in one night, light a flame at the tip of my thumb, turn a black stone white. I can't do much more. Mere coincidence," she insisted.

"Flames grow into wildfires and a single tree can make a forest."

"And dwarves can carve mountains and men can kill their kings! I am a lumberer!"

"Yes, you are. You are a lumberer who keeps the Fornost forest green and highwaymen away from the ruins of Erain," Wilhelmina warbled. "I have heard the tales the Breelanders weave! You scare cruel hands away with fire, make peace with Mithlond and Ered Luin when you cannot make peace with them! Thee cannot lie to me!"

" _Jesus Christ, just fuck off you psychotic old bat!_ " Cameron bellowed, sending the herds of cats running for cover under furniture. Her patience was at an end.

The room was silent. It made the young woman all the more aware of the one ton weight in her chest. _The Nazgul are just outside Bree._ Frodo and his friends looked nervous following her angry outburst.

"They are here, outside the gates. I can feel them, I think," she said tightly to Strider, who looked upon her cautiously. "I do not know why I cannot feel the Ring you spoke of, but I feel a great weight in my chest that is only growing heavier. Go upstairs, to the first room. It is mine, and be sure to lock it. Here is the key." The young woman handed the small brass item to the ranger, who took it gingerly.

"And you? What will you do?"

"I want to see whether the door will hold as I promised. Make sure the hobbits are safe upstairs."

"The door will hold―"

" _Shut the fuck up!_ " she yelled at the crone again. The hag screeched in equal anger before flying out of the common room like a bat from hell.

Strider took one quick glance around―very obviously mystified he was even in such a situation as this―before climbing the stairs on his long legs.

* * *

When the screeching started, distant yet all too close, Cameron found herself watching the cats from her seat by the common room fire. They split into camps, much like an army breaking down into organized squadrons. Two groups of toms manned the front windows, pacing below the sill or scratching against the shutters. Another clutter of felines surveyed the main floor, acting as some sort of watch. The rest clustered themselves near the fireplace, huddled around the kitten basket. Their behavior was a complete study in strange.

Then the young woman heard the low rolling thunder of galloping hooves, the noise nearing before disappearing. She wondered if the undead were stampeding through town, hoping to scare their quarry out like they were hunting foxes and not people. There were only so many streets in Bree; before long, they would be charging past the boarding house. She gripped her axe tighter, the butt of it resting on the floor. The lumberer sat in the chair as a lord would sit in his throne, a royal staff signifying his godly rule in hand.

It was after the fifth rotation of hooves that Strider quietly descended the staircase. He took stock of the room―ever the watchful ranger―before carefully maneuvering his way through the incensed cats to where she sat. His eyes gleamed in the firelight, casting sharp shadows across the well defined planes of his face.

"Do you wish to sit?" she offered quietly, gesturing to the chair across from her. A single old tom snored away in it, his patchy fur making him appear as a rolled-up animal hide cushion.

The man moved to the chair, picking up the cat and sitting down. Grumbling, the tom flopped his body over the ranger's lap, legs hanging over Strider's thighs. The poor ranger looked quite exasperated at the creature, but ended up stroking its uneven pelt. The pair stared into the fire, quiet. Nothing beyond the ominous thundering of hooves filled the air.

"Who is that old woman?" he asked privately, breaking the hush in the room.

"She is Wilhelmina, the owner of this boarding house. Completely mad, possibly an ancient witch from the farthest reaches of Arnor."

"Is she the one who taught you your tricks?" He asked with no urgency, or any tone of command. Cameron was grateful for his patience.

She shook her head. "No. These tricks I discovered by chance. I did not know better."

His expression turned puzzled. "You did not know better how?"

The young woman made a face, her free hand gesturing wildly. "It is hard to speak how! I do not have enough words in this stupid tongue!"

Strider's gaze was full of empathy. His lips twisted in thought, before he finally spoke. "You know Elvish, correct? Sindarin?"

She nodded uncertainly. "Yes. The elves of Mithlond taught me."

Then he smiled, " **Then let us speak in it.** "

Cameron eyes were as wide as saucers, her face a picture of shock.

" **You know Sindarin! Thank God!** " she declared happily, laughing softly. " **This is a language I'm actually good at speaking. Where did you learn it?** " Her voice was eager.

" **I lived in Rivendell when I was young; I learned it faster than I learned Westron, funnily enough,** " he said, clearly entertained by her enthusiasm.

" **Well, thank God you did. I've had much more practice with Sindarin and Quenya, and better teachers. It's hard being from another world, trying to learn languages completely unlike your own.** "

" **From where do you hail?** " the ranger wondered, genuinely interested. " **That strange tongue you yelled at Wilhelmina sounded so close yet completely unlike Westron.** "

" **I'm from an entirely different world; I'm not joking. It's a world called** _Earth_ **. I lived in a place called the** _United States of America_ **, in the** _state_ **of** _California_."

" **What is a** _state?_ "

Cameron blinked in pleasant surprise. " **You're actually able to pronounce the word! I've yet to meet anyone who can actually pronounce any words in** _English._ **As for what a** _state_ **is, it is place similar to a fief, but with its own government and trade markets.** "

" **And that is the name of the language you speak?** _English?_ "

" **Yes! God, you can't believe how happy I am to hear someone else speak** _English_ **words**."

" **I'm glad it brings you joy** ," Strider said with an amused smile. " **Now, I ask again: You didn't know better how?** "

" **In my world, there is no magic** ," Cameron explained. " **Instead we've advanced, building engines and monumental structures that I can't even begin to properly translate. I don't even think Sindarin, let alone Quenya, have equivalent words for half of what exists on** _Earth_ **. We do not have wizards, or Nazgul. There are no dwarves or elves or orcs. It's just humans**."

" **So when you found yourself here, you didn't know that magic wasn't common, did you?** " the ranger deduced.

" **Exactly** ," she said, nodding. " **I've been stuck here in Arda for two years and about two months, yet it's been barely enough time for me to learn about the politics, the cultures, the languages, anything. I didn't know any better―still don't, really―beyond that I didn't want to be seen doing these things. With my looks, I am already living on the fringes of this town; any more peculiar quirks would surely put me in danger. Either way, I haven't learned enough about this place. The best I have done is learn Quenya and Sindarin, some conversational Westron, a smidgeon of Khuzdul. If I was back home, I would be a disgrace to my would-be profession.** "

" **You were not a lumberer from where you hail?"** he said, surprised.

" **No, I'm only a lumberer because it was the best job I could manage to get here in Bree that didn't require me to be a homemaker**. **I was studying to be a Linguistic Anthropologist, someone who studies the connections between cultures and languages as well as the history of the said languages. You'd call me a scholar, I guess? Really, I'm not very good.** "

Strider's expression said he clearly disagreed. " **Quenya and Sindarin are difficult languages to learn if you didn't grow up with them spoken in the home. Khuzdul even more so. It takes years for Men to understand; it is a feat that you have mastered both and what little you have of dwarrow speech.** "

" **I wouldn't say I mastered them. That's a bit generous. If an elf includes any old Avarin or Telerin words, I'm completely thrown off.** "

He chuckled. " **Mithlond elves have very little contact with their neighbors; their speech is much less changed than the elves of Rivendell or Mirkwood. Nevertheless, I am sorry I was so surprised at your use of magic; I have never seen a human do such a thing.** "

" **So humans don't do magic?** "

" **Not unless they serve the Enemy, having given their hearts over in exchange for power. At times men who are part-elf can do such things, little things, but that is not always true. All races but men have their own specific brand of magic. Yet none can do what you did tonight except the wizards.** "

" **Lovely** ," the woman said sardonically. " **Just another quirk to alienate me from the rest of this world.** "

" **Have heart,** Cameron," said Strider, his face earnest. " **I have barely known you for a day, yet I see in your eyes no evil. Please forgive me for my earlier wariness. Our small company may yet find your tricks useful, once we are in the Wild.** "

Cameron opened her mouth to respond, but abruptly cut herself off. The ranger furrowed his brow in confusion, when he realized what had her pause. The thundering hooves were coming too close. Both of them stilled completely. Strider's hand hovered over the hilt of his longsword, and the young woman held her dwarven axe in a white-knuckled grip.

The hooves clambered to a stop. The lumberer could hear the huffing breaths of the black riders' mounts, the clinking of metal armor.

 _SLAM!_

The felines began to yowl, and the toms gathered at the door like they could all hold it in place. Cameron jumped, eyes wide. " _Shit_ , they are at the door."

"We shall see whether or not the witch's door holds," Strider commented.

"Hah, you think she is a witch now too?" she said.

He stared at her, glancing at the crazed cats piling at the door or clawing at the window shutters pointedly. The young woman thought he made a very good point.

 _Slam! Slam! Slam!_

The age wood rattled wildly on its hinges, but not once did it give a sign that it was beginning to buckle under the abuse. By that point, the cats were all screaming. Cameron thought it was a miracle the other tenants weren't running down the stairs. Were they all out or were they barricading themselves in their rooms? The hobbits had to be terrified. Her heart felt like a stone, the weight of their presence was so suffocating.

 _SLAM! SLAM! SLAM! SLAM!_

That door just wasn't going to budge. The lumberer couldn't believe that Wilhelmina's crazy jabbering hadn't actually been a bunch of long-winded mad talk. An unholy chorus of vulture-like screeching echoed into the boarding house.

"Open the door, Easterling," a bone-chilling voice rasped thickly from behind the termite-eaten wood.

Cameron blinked in confusion, although terrified. The grip on her axe did not lessen in the least. She turned her head to Strider. "I do not know that word?"

"Easterling is what the people of Harad are referred to; they live in the eastern deserts with skin as dark as yours," the ranger quickly supplied. The young woman wasn't amused.

"I will not open the door, dead men!" she called back, "For I do not like what you call me!"

 _SLAM! SLAM! SLAM! SLAM!_

"Open the door," the voice repeated. "Give us the halfling."

" _Go to hell!_ They are not here! They were cowards, they ran away into the night! You are too late!" she called again, hoping her taunting lies would make them leave. Strider glanced at her worriedly. The young woman couldn't blame him. She felt breathless, the supernatural weight pushing on her ribs making it hard for her to speak.

 _SLAM! SLAM! SLAM! SLAM!_

"OPEN THE DOOR! GIVE US THE HALFLING!"

"They escaped to the Fornost Erain!" Cameron yelled, her terror strangling her voice in a way she hoped made her lie even more believable. "I told them to go there! None think to hide there!"

The slamming stopped. She could hear their hissing breaths, the weary chuffing of their horses, hooves pawing at the cobble street anxiously. Time seemed to halt entirely. The lumberwoman swore her heart stopped. No one breathed.

Then the clinking of armor rang in the air again, horses whinnied, and with a final parting screech, the black riders were gone.

Both of them did not move until the rumble of hooves could no longer be heard, and her chest was not held tight by their presence.

Cameron collapsed on the floor in a heap, axe clambering against the floorboards. A great gust of air wheezed from her lungs. All of Wilhelmina's cats swarmed her, rubbing up against any appendage available purring. It sounded as though she was inside the engine of a sports car. The ranger relaxed, his hand falling to his side. He glanced down at her with concern, brow upraised at the sight of her swamped in nearly all black fur.

She shook her head in disbelief, waving him off tiredly. "If I survive this madness, I am moving to Mithlond."

Strider sputtered―trying to hold in his mirth―before throwing his head back and laughing into the night. Cameron found herself grinning. _The ranger's not so bad a guy… as long as he's not tackling me_.


	3. Cryptic Words and Throwing Stones

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Another chapter, delivered to y'all fresh. I'm trying to see if I can actually update this consistently instead of making a chapter per year like I usually do. Anyway, our weird band of fellows are leaving Bree! Wilhelmina is crazy! There is a kitten! Rocks are thrown! Thank you to those who reviewed again, _**keep it up**_. I'd like to have more than 20 reviews before chapter five, as feedback gives me energy.

" _Italics"_ when used in dialogue indicates foreign language(s) to Middle Earth. Normal text is Westron. _Italics_ when not used in a dialogue context is for emphasis. " **Bold** " is any Elvish dialect, because I'm lazy about writing out Sindarin/Quenya conversations. If I ever use the word "God/ **God** " outside of italics, know that it's just an equivalent word for Eru in context.

As for why Satta-banâth is italicized… I fucking forgot my own rules. I'M SORRY. I fixed it.

* * *

 **Chapter Three: Cryptic Words and Throwing Stones**

* * *

The next morning found Cameron covered neck to toe in cats. Two on her chest, the old tom on her stomach, two on the shoulders, four to five for each leg and arm, a ginger feline curled around her neck, and the rest walled her in. Really, she was entombed in black fur. Somewhere, the basket of kittens was making very unhappy mewling sounds. Soft early morning light filtered in through the shutters. The air was cool. Cameron felt disgusting with how filthy she was. Clothes caked in mud, sludge-baked shoes, her hair greasy and falling out of her once neat bun. _I desperately need a long soak in a bath or something_. Her rucksack was somewhere, and her beloved axe dug into her spine.

The lumberer never made it to her own room last night after the Nazgul scare, and really she doubted there was any space left anyway. The hobbits probably had piled on it like puppies and Strider slept in one of the two small chairs. She hoped none of them filched her deer antler.

Groaning, the young woman attempted to urge the felines trapping her to leave. " _C'mon, guys. Up! The floor's killing my back._ " she griped in English. Most of them departed, meowing forlornly, except for the old tom.

She stared at him, irritated. He was perhaps the most stubborn creature she'd ever encountered. The beast also snored like an electric saw.

" _Get off my stomach, old man! I'll lift you if you don't!_ "

The old tom grumbled, cracking open an eye before grumbling louder. His paws weakly dug into her coat. With a sigh, Cameron lifted the cat away and stood up. He began yowling his head off straightaway.

" _Jesus, you dumb goof. I manhandle you and suddenly you're acting like I'm sawing off your tail._ " She dumped him in a chair by the empty fireplace, where he instantly quieted. The young woman rolled her eyes.

"I see you have awoken, child. Care for a kipper, or maybe a drink?"

Cameron turned, spotting Wilhelmina entering the room with a large grey stone bowl clasped in her gnarled hands. It was filled with a disturbing menagerie of garbage: ratty bird feathers, animal teeth, bottle corks, shards of colored glass, a bent silver ring, carved knuckle bones, and rodent skulls. Something about it made her stomach churn and the young woman wanted nothing to do with it. Instead, she really needed to check on her motley crew consisting of four hobbits and one ranger. They needed to leave Bree before the black riders realized she'd shamelessly lied her ass off, make for Rivendell. With any luck, one of the Mithlond elves Cameron knew would be visiting the Last Homely House this time of year.

"It is too early for wine. Your kipper are always undercooked. Why have you brought that bowl of strange trinkets?" she said, cutting to the point.

Wilhelmina chuckled, if the sounds emerging from her throat could be called such. She set the bowl down on a rickety table with a thunk.

"Wreathed child, dear child," the crone trilled, "Are thou fearful of my bowl? You should not be, for it is foolish to fear the future when it has yet been written."

"The future?" Cameron parroted, "Are you saying your items can… _tell fortunes?_ … uh… " The lumberer struggled to mentally translate her words, "Divine?"

"Indeed, indeed! So the child is not a child after all! Come closer, Satta-banâth, for you shall soon leave on your quest. Knowledge is power, as they all say."

Wilhelmina's claw-like fingers dug into the bowl, kneading the objects and stirring the contents with her feeble wrists. Cameron felt it was much too early for the crazy old lady's antics, but something inside her urged to slowly inch forward. It was a funny scene to watch, as the horribly hunched crone's arms seemingly churned the objects blindly. Her head was not level with the table, nor were her eyes.

And then suddenly Wilhelmina grabbed two handfuls from the bowl and chucked them across the floor. The felines startled, scampering away under furniture in fright. The older woman did it again, and again. She continued to throw the contents of the bowl on the floorboards until the stone container was completely empty. Cameron gaped at her, agog.

"Are you done?" she blurted, eyes darting around the floor and the sharp objects littering it. The lumberer didn't dare move.

"Not at all! Now for the reading!" Wilhelmina declared, her arms held aloft with manic excitement.

The crone waddled between the scattered items, her lengthy hair flung around her neck like a demented scarf. Clearly she didn't want any of the objects to move from their places.

"Ah!" Wilhelmina crowed, pointing at a cluster of carved bones and a damaged silver ring, "Thou will have three suitors cross your path, dear child. Good to know my tenant shant die an old maid…"

She picked her way around again. "There are two in particular thou will have to choose between," a wrinkled finger indicated a ratty eagle feather next to a wolf's tooth, "Both are great warriors, would-be masters in their own right… one upon the road to eternity, the other upon the road of uncertainty."

The crone hopped, landing near the largest clump of trinkets. "Soon, a wild northern wind will sweep thee westward from the forests thou roam, and many challenges will be placed in thine path. A council of three races, creatures of the deep, the greed of Man, the strife of horses, an attack upon a white mountain from the long arms of black peaks!"

She spun around wildly, cackling, then gestured meaningfully to a rabbit's skull circled by shards of glass and two bottle corks. "Far from the shores of home thee may be, but gifted are thee in ways Unseen! Indeed, indeed! Very blessed, little wreathed child…"

Wilhelmina trailed off, her eyes lazily searching for the last grouping. She warily neared, pointing at it severely. "... Yet very cursed indeed. Mandos will linger in thine shadow, for thou shalt keep something from him that he was meant to claim. There will come a day when smoke stretches across the horizon while a river of blood flows at thine feet, and Death shall force thee to pay thine dues. On that day, you will again have to choose…"

Then she stopped, leaned down slightly to consider a chipped rat's skull, only to tersely clap her hands.

"And there you have it, child! Now take my words with thee and begone! Your carvings hanging in your room shall be my payment, as well as your furs. Do not come back here again, for I did not relish in having white wraiths crowned in thorns bashing at my door!"

With that, the hag left.

"... _What the fuck._ "

Cameron stood there, numb and viciously lost. What had any of that meant? Mandos? Who was that? And who the hell was she, saying stuff about suitors and old maids like the lumberwoman was some kind of heiress to marry off? She sounded worse than her grandmother! The young woman was an independent millennial! A displaced independent millennial, sure. But she could marry whoever the hell she wanted! To hell with her cranky abuela and Wilhelmina! Who cared about fortune telling? The lumberer made her own destiny. Nobody decided _shit_ for her.

And yet, the rest of that "reading" had been extremely unsettling. Admittedly, the lumberwoman's mother was very superstitious. _Bolso en el piso, dinero por la puerta, mija,_ she once said to a twelve year-old Cameron. _No me cepillo los pies! Maldita sea quien lo gane,_ she yelled two years later. In turn, the young woman had grown up to be just as superstitious. It had only gotten worse when she realized magic was real in Arda.

So the greed of Man? Creatures of the deep? An attack upon a white mountain from the long arms of black peaks? None that sounded very encouraging. Just what sort of mess did Wilhelmina think Cameron would get into in the future? She was a lumberer for Christ's sake, with only a few weird magical gimmicks, two knives, and an axe. How was she ever going to end up on a fantasy quest? Then again, wasn't she stuck in a fantasy world? There were no lines between fact and fiction, not anymore. _Earth is a pipe dream at this point. Two years here already; there's no hope for me returning anytime soon._

"Agh! I forgot! You must have these things! A warrior cannot go on their fated journey without gifts!" Wilhelmina bursted. Her arms were laden with a long wrapped mess of moth-eaten wool. She knocked the bowl from the table to place the woolen package down.

"Gifts? _Jesus,_ Wilhelmina, start making sense!" Cameron cried frustratedly.

"Do not act like a child, Satta-banâth, it is not flattering. I make plenty of sense. You just haven't realized it yet. Now!" The crone announced, tossing back the fabric, "A short sword!"

She shoved the sheathed weapon at the lumberer, who fumbled to take it. "Because you have none between your legs."

" _E-Excuse me―?!_ "

"A token!" Wilhelmina continued, tossing it, "When an exchange must be made!"

Cameron quickly threw it over her head, already fearful of what was coming next. It was some kind of pendant hanging from a leather cord. She didn't have a chance to study it. The sword, however, she wasn't sure what to do with.

"Three white stones, as perfect and polished as gems!" The rocks were chucked, forcing Cameron to drop the sword and catch them before they hit her face. "Because rolling stones gather no moss, but gain a certain polish."

She blinked bewilderedly. "Did you just recite _Oliver Herford_ ―?"

"And finally," the crone trilled, dashing to the basket by the silent fireplace, "A new friend!"

One of the kittens―nearly six months old, it looked like, almost completely grown―mewled at the handling. Wilhelmina shuffled over, placing the smallish animal on the young woman's shoulder like one would a parrot, "To keep your heart warm and serve your needs!"

Cameron gazed over at the cat, which made itself at home on her person. It was solid black, like most of the witch's felines. Very fluffy, not too heavy, and equipped with the largest soft blue eyes she'd ever seen. _How am I gonna take care of it on the road?_ She wondered if it would be as inexplicable and human-like as the other cats.

"I also took the liberty of packing your rucksack. I put in some food, a waterskin, left the supplies you already had inside, and shoved that emerald green bag of yours from under the bed in there. You do not need to lose your things from home, yes?" Yet another thing was shoved at her, and the sword picked up from the floor and piled atop it. The young woman arms struggled to balance the awkward stack.

"What about the hobbits? The ranger? Wilhelmina, what do you do to them?"

"Do to them? I have done nothing!" she screeched. "They left here to prepare for the road, and that Dúnadan told me he would come back for you! Bah, to think you would trust me so little! Now off you go! Good luck with those suitors!"

The crone, who appeared as though she couldn't push over a baby, manhandled Cameron out the door with unnatural ease. The lumberer nearly tumbled face-first onto the cobbled street, and the door was unceremoniously slammed at her back. She stood there, more numb and lost than beforehand.

" _What the fuck?!_ "

"Cameron?"

Whipping her head around, the young woman spotted Strider walking swiftly up the cobbled road. He looked minimally cleaner than last night, the dirt partially scraped off his dark ranger garb. The longsword hung at his hip, and a quiver was slung across his back. Accompanying it was a bedroll and a few wrapped bundles tied to the strap. She hadn't noticed before, but there was also a broken sword strapped to his opposite hip. The hilt, compared to his intact weapon, was elaborate and lustrous. Its blade was only about as long as a dagger, and would strike someone as being quite valuable. Either way, Cameron had never been more happy to see him.

"Strider!" she shouted, well beyond disquieted, "The damn witch kicked me out!"

His brows shot up, as the corners of his lips twitched up. "Oh?"

"Yes!" Cameron affirmed, trying to hold all her things as the kitten began to climb her face, "She took my wall carvings! And my deer antler! Then gave me gifts, as if it helps! It is horrible!"

"So I can see," he said, trying to hold in a chuckle. "Does it have a name?"

"What? The cat? Do I look like I have had the time for such?!"

" **Do you need help, my lady?** " Strider jokingly offered, arms outstretched.

She slowly found herself smiling weakly, but also puzzled. The kitten sat proudly on her head, front paws clinging to her unkempt bun.

" **My lady? Where'd did that come from?** "

Cameron offered the pile. The man took the sword and rucksack in each hand.

" **You are a learned scholar, are you not? Among men, scholars of repute are of the same rank as a noble. It takes a great deal of resources to educate a child.** "

" **HA! I'm not a noble, Strider; not here. I cut down trees, grow them back, only to cut them down again. I didn't finish my schooling, anyway. Remember?** "

She shoved the white stones in her hands away into the pockets of her coat, then reached up for the cat. It dodged her first grab.

" **And yet such a thing could be rectified** ," he said, helping her put on the rucksack without cutting it open on the axe blade, smirking at the antics of the little creature. " **Rivendell's libraries are expansive, and elves there are always pleased to teach others their vast knowledge. If not, you did say you will be relocating to Mithlond permanently after the hobbits are safe. They can teach you just as easily if you let them, help them build ships to sail across the seas to Valinor. There is no need to give up on what you love just because the Men here cannot see past their differences.** "

" **I hadn't thought of it that way. These past two years… I feel like my only lot in life is scraping by gathering lumber and living in a crazy woman's house. That I'm trapped in this nightmarish limbo because of who I am and what I am** ," she confessed. " **What about rangers? From what all these townspeople say, you're all a bunch of** _shady dudes_ **with a** _license_ **to kill anyone disturbing the peace. It doesn't exactly sound like a glorious way to go about living.** "

" **We protect the Free Peoples as well as we can. Though my people are few, we do not falter in our duties. It is hard, wandering the wilds. I shall not deny it. But even the smallest of deeds can make the greatest change,** " Strider said quietly.

Turning away, he glanced down at the short sword that remained. Examining the faint vines that embossed the leather sheath, his fingers slid across the patterns thoughtfully. Gripping the hilt, the man slid it partly free.

"Did Wilhelmina give you this sword?" he asked, switching to Common. Clearly their perplexing heart-to-heart moment had ended.

"Yes, after telling me a horrible joke. _Between my legs, my ass!_ "

"It is a good weapon. Plain, yet well-made. It will serve you well." The ranger resheathed it, offering it back. The young woman stared at it blankly.

"I do not… know how to put it on," she said awkwardly. After the fifth attempt at catching the animal, Cameron finally managed to grab it by the scruff. It nibbled at her thumb as it sat cradled in the crook of the young woman's arm.

She never messed with swords. Swords were for men who wanted to die by another guy's sword because he couldn't lift the one he already owned. Swords were for idiots who drank too much at the Pony, threatened her in their free time, and then found themselves at the sharp-end of her axe for attempting to cop a feel. Cameron and swords simply didn't go together.

The awkwardness―with a horribly bizarre tension that shouldn't have been sexual―only increased as Strider shook his head dolefully and kneeled at her waist. From such a perspective, Cameron got a full view of very nice broad shoulders and a neck that looked entirely too… _diverting_ for belonging to a random white Ardan with unwashed hair. If there was a blush on her face as the man went about securing the leather straps to her belt, fingers brushing her hip bones, the young woman was trying to ignore it. _He's gonna help me get the hobbits to safety, get my ass to safety, and then he'll be gone. I go to the Grey Havens after the black riders fuck off, build some ships with the harbor-going elves; he goes off to do whatever crazy shit rangers do. Don't get any stupid ideas, dumbass._

The kitten didn't seem to care at all, and leapt from Cameron's grasp to land on the ranger's back as he finished tightening the last strap into place. He stiffened in surprise for a moment before chuckling, standing up. The feline clung by its claws, and he reached behind himself and tugged the creature away from the edge of his quiver.

"Perhaps you should name it Orodreth," Strider mused.

"Mountaineer?" she said skeptically.

"She climbs like one." The cat in question attempted to scurry out of his arms, but he managed to pet her so thoroughly she was otherwise convinced.

"If I were to call her anything of that sort, it will be _trepadora_."

His brows pinched, pale gaze curious. "That is not English. What language is that?"

" _Spanish_ ," The lumberwoman replied. "Another tongue from home. It is my mother's native speech. _Trepadora_ means climber."

The man's burrowed furrowed more, mouthing the vowels, before speaking. "Tepandura?"

Cameron balked, appalled by the butchered pronunciation. "No, no, no. Speak it with me: Trep."

"Trep."

"Trep- _ah_."

"Trep- _ah_."

"Trep-ah- _door-ah_."

"Trep-ah- _door-ah_ ," he repeated, his accent improving.

"Now say it all. _Trepadora._ "

" _Trepadora_ ," he said, smiling at his success.

"Not bad, Strider!" she decided, "You are good with tongues! There is hope for you yet."

"High praise from a scholar well-versed in such."

The lumberer rolled her eyes at his weak attempt at flattery. "Where are the hobbits?"

"At the east gate. We acquired a pony with their coin, but it is in a sorry state. It was the only horse left in town, as the black riders scared the rest out of Bree."

"I doubt that. You claimed Ferny is a spy. I know him; he opened the stables, scared the horses. He knows I am too clever to be killed easily. Slowing me down is… _smar_ ―good? Good? Good move."

"Perhaps. Bill Ferny was who I was forced to buy the pony from."

She turned roughly, "No! Really?" Her eyes were wide and disbelieving. "How much coin?"

"Twelve silver pennies."

" _Jesus H. Christ!"_ The lumberer cried. "He is lucky we need to leave quick, or I would hurt him for the theft!"

"Do not waste your breath on him," said Strider, "We have a long road ahead beyond the walls of this town."

"Of that," Cameron said, retrieving her kitten from him, "I am sure."

* * *

The pony purchased to carry their supplies―tauntingly named Bill after his former owner and then renamed Bill Nye upon Cameron's insistence―was barely skin and mostly bones. It made the lumberer sick to see such abuse towards a sweet little equine like Bill, then surprised that the small beast could actually handle bearing the weight he was laden with. Sam, equally upset by the mistreatment yet heartened by Bill's unspoken resolve, was determined to fatten up the pony like it was his sole quest in life. Which was hindered, obviously, by the fact their little troop was traveling briskly into the wilds dividing Bree and Rivendell. There was exactly enough supplies for them, some late autumn grasses and moss found along their route for Bill, and that was it.

Strider set an exhausting pace for hobbits too, who had to walk twice as fast on their short legs just to maintain a speed that vaguely kept up with the unnervingly tall ranger. Cameron was fine with it, being very used to traveling long distances by foot after two years of doing so. She once had to walk a half-mile whilst dragging half of a pine tree to a lumber camp on her own. The young woman honestly dealt with worse. But the halflings? Sam had nicknamed the man Longshanks out of passive-aggressive bitterness. Pippin and Merry agreed, as the lumberwoman sometimes heard the nickname muttered under their breath while they trekked onward. Frodo struggled, but never complained. The only thing that kept the hobbits eager and happy to continue was the thought of meeting elves… as well as trying their cuisine.

It actually became a point of contention, food. Strider refused to give them more than two meals. The lumberer understood the reasoning, what with rationing their food and the like. But halflings were like hamsters: they needed to eat a lot to keep their little bodies going. So Cameron, knowing that furious mutiny would occur if snacks weren't provided, took to foraging as they traveled. She gathered nuts, collected autumn berries, dug for roots, starch, and vegetables. All the while, she'd peel edible mosses off rocks, handing it off to Sam for Bill. The grumbling lessened, and Sam was questionably chipper. Strider, by the third day, caught on to what the young woman was doing. When he appeared with a near-bushel of apples in his arms an hour later? She swore she almost saw the hobbits swear their undying loyalty to the ranger. How the man even _found_ apples in the middle of nowhere, she wasn't even going to ask. Their snacks allowed them to avoid a would-be argument and eventual betrayal, either way. That, and Trepadora entertained the halflings by climbing all over them.

But then they found themselves trudging into the beginnings of the Midgewater Marshes and all bets were off.

"I'm being eaten alive!" cried Pippin, eyes scrunched as his hands flapped furiously. "Midgewater! There are more midges than water!"

Sam huffed, tugging Bill along through the thick swill of mud and grimy water. Merry slapped his neck, five little insects smashed on his palm. "What do they live on if they can't get hobbit?" he wondered in distress. Frodo tripped and fell face-first into the murk. Strider quickly backtracked and hauled the poor guy out. The kitten had taken refuge on Bill's back, hiding amongst the supplies. _Coward._

"It is bad walking for bare feet," Cameron observed, tromping steadily through the muck. The end of her long coat floated on the water like a tail trailing behind her. "And these midges are horrible."

"They will settle in the evening, after the sun has set," said the ranger. His many lengthy layers also swept after him, but splashed mud onto his exposed bedroll. Poor man was going to be sleeping with dirt _and_ wet clothes.

"If we do not move," she quipped.

He looked back at her. "And why would we be moving?"

"We are already halfway through our food. Rivendell is far yet," she pointed out. "One of us should hunt."

The man raised a brow incredulously, eyes darting over her person meaningfully. "We are not staying long enough for trapping, and I do not see a bow with you. I will hunt for us."

Cameron knew she shouldn't have taken it so close to heart, but she did. The young woman was insulted. Was the ranger really so stupid, so unimaginative? _There is more than one way to solve a problem, dumbass._ She unshouldered a strap of her pack, a hand reaching in. Their troop stopped, watching curiously as they warded off the midges. The lumberer stared at the ranger straight in the eyes with her dark gaze as she pulled out a sling. She shook it in her grasp to emphasize her point. Shouldering her rucksack, her free hand slipped into a coat pocket and revealed a reasonably-sized river stone.

"How did you think I hunted all the meat for Butterbur? Traps and hope?"

His face was a study in shrewd skepticism. "A shepherd's sling is not meant for hunting."

"Says who?" Cameron shot back with a look of challenge in her gaze. She slipped the items away in her coat pockets and marched ahead. If her footfalls splashed more than they had before, with agitation clearly spelled out with each step, the men were wise enough not to comment.

"I think you will regret saying that, Strider," spoke Frodo, trudging through the disgusting water once again. "Miss Stevens is one character who I feel does not like being disbelieved."

"She'll prove you wrong, she will," added Sam, nodding.

"Agreed!" chimed Merry and Pippin.

Later that night, following an unremarkable sunset almost completely hidden by distant trees and the low fog lingering on the Marshes, their small company made camp. There weren't too many dry places above the marsh water, but Strider had managed to locate a somewhat big plot of dry land. It was only about three yards long; large enough for four hobbits and a small fire to be settled, but not so such so that a pony and two humans could be included. Cameron and Strider found themselves parked together on a nearby island two feet away, and Bill tied to a depressing-looking birch tree next to them. The hobbits tightly encircled the fire, eager to dry off their wet cloaks and clothes. A few minutes earlier, the young woman provided crushed lavender mixed in water, explaining to the best of her ability that it would keep away the bugs. _It's a miracle Wilhelmina put the dry herbs I had in my room inside my rucksack. I was sure she'd keep them just like the damn antler!_

Then the hobbits began grumbling about dinner, a kitten mewled pathetically in Frodo's lap, and Strider was getting up.

"No, no," Cameron said, shaking a finger at him. She stood, leaving behind her rucksack and axe near Bill. "I hunt, you stay with the hobbits."

"Lady Cameron―"

"Nah-ah!" she cut off. "Stay to watch them or come to watch me. **I'll prove that my sling is better than your bow.** "

"Are you usually competitive?" he said.

"I do not like being told I am wrong," she stated simply, walking away from camp toward the tree line, "When I know I am undoubtedly right."

Strider shook his head, inwardly marveling at Cameron's stubbornness, before following after her vanishing form.

The pair walked in silence. They entered the forest, wandered further into the deep shadows of the canopies. Cameron stayed ahead, Strider close behind. He noted she trod softly, almost as quiet as his own near-soundless boots. Had she learned such a trick from the Mithlond elves, or had she another teacher? The lumberer kept her head tilted, as if she was hoping to hear the game trot by.

"How long have you hunted in this fashion?" the ranger whispered.

"Two years," she murmured in response. "Before that, I would knock bottles off a fence as a game when I was small with my elder sister. My mother called me troublesome."

"And you have successfully killed game with nothing but river rocks, two crossed strips of leather, and soft-woven twine?"

"I have. And even if I miss the head, I still manage to kill it. **A little trick never goes remiss** ," the lumberwoman divulged, smiling into the dark.

His face scrunched, "How―?"

Cameron shot out a hand, shoving him in the chest. Strider halted, and she dragged him along behind an oak. She stood in the open, but stayed silent. Glancing at him, she pointed off into the gloom. Following the line of sight, the ranger spotted a young buck. Its antlers were only half of what size they could grow to be, but it was thick beast with spry muscle. The animal chewed at a frost-covered bush, oblivious. Cameron withdrew the sling, knocking him with her elbow and gesturing at her simple weapon.

" **You'd think this sling isn't anything but a tool for shepherds to use, something to scare wolves or foxes away. But in the hands of the right person it is as good as any ranged weapon** ," the young woman muttered lowly in Sindarin.

She grabbed the leather strips and the ends of the twine, showing off its span. " **The longer it is, the stronger it hits. The shorter it is, the easier it is to always hit your target. But, there's not nearly as much power in it as a long sling.** "

Her fingers picked at the cross strips of worn leather, which together formed a loose basket shape. " **This is also important. The sling needs to have enough contact with the stone to be swung safely in the pouch, but not so little that it slips out before you throw it. Too much contact will take away from the stone's impact. These strips touch stones partially, and conform to the stone as I swing it in the air.** "

Then the lumberer grabbed the ends, indicating the frayed puffs of fiber. " **String or twine is the best material, and it's cheap. It won't make a noise when you release it, unlike leather. An entirely leather sling will crack like a whip, and that's not at all helpful if you're out hunting.** "

She procured the same river stone as before from her pocket. It was cool grey, a thin pale stripe of white running down its middle. Perfectly smooth; not too large or too small by Strider's reckoning. Cameron clasped it between her fingers. She glanced his way briefly before closing her eyes. Taking a long, careful breath, she blew hot air upon it. The man watched―eyes widening exponentially―as the rock steadily turned a polished, crimson red. Then she placed it in the pouch, moving slightly away. With her right hand, she began slowly swinging it. Strider could scarcely hear it. And then with two fast rotations, faster than he could see, it was released.

One length of twine hung free, the rock was gone, and the young buck was on the ground. Unmoving.

Cameron swiftly descended upon it, checking its antlers intently. The ranger moved forward, and he thought the deer appeared strange as it laid there still. It was undoubtedly dead, yet there were no signs of damage. No blood, no tears in its hide, no sign of the thrown stone breaking bone. Looking around, he noticed five fractured shards of rusty red scattered across the ground. _The rock had shattered?_

As she moved to haul it over her back, Strider took the dead animal. "It is the least I could do."

The young woman released it, then chuckled in way that seemed triumphant. "Now do you see? The sling is good."

He nodded, still greatly shocked. "Why did the stone break?"

"When I discovered I could make stones change color, I played with them. What could they do? Were they just pretty colors?" she said rhetorically. "Each color is simply proof; proof a trick worked. White stones can shine, black stones can burn, red stones can kill. I do not know yet what any other colors can do. They are minor tricks, no great moves of magic. All stones break when their purpose is fulfilled." The lumberer shrugged absently, stowing the sling. "Nothing is forever."

Strider was silent. He found himself shaking his head again, not a word of his wild thoughts leaving his lips. He just couldn't believe this bizarre, foreign woman!

"Lady Cameron," he said finally, "You are a lot of trouble."

Cameron, in return, snorted, glancing back at him with a look that declared him an idiot.

"I am a hard-working woman with a sharp mind, armed with a handful of useful tricks I do not fully understand. There is nothing troublesome in this," she lightly admonished in unsteady Common. "You only find me troublesome because I am resourceful and… and… unyielding! Yes, unyielding! You have not seen that from other women, not in a town like what we left. Breelanders do not like me for this reason, along with a long list of ever more reasons. You are not them. You have your own views; after all, you called me a scholar! None have asked me if I was such! So if you are wise, you will accept it and move on."

She strolled away, heading into the low fog like an apparition joining its brethren. He stared after her, ruminative and mute. The buck hung heavily over his shoulder, and the broken sword at his hip felt hot against the growing chill of the night. His mind drifted unwillingly to a memory of dark hair swathed in the palest blue and a white gem dangling from a slim neck. Of words full of regret and a white ship with equally white sails. The piercing call of seagulls. A harsh reminder of differing paths and the cruelties of fate. He thought on his differences, the separations, and unspoken truths.

The ranger pondered the lands he had wandered, the landscapes he had seen. Golden-haired women who worked their golden lands as much as they protected them by way of shield and sword. Women dressed in court finery, kept behind granite walls decorated with dull tapestries, demure and restrained. Women who haunted dark streets and long alleys, eyes burning and shameless in their sensual displays. Dark women who rode across arid plains of eternal sunlight, wrapped in fabrics more vibrant than valley flowers blooming in spring. Women with obsidian skin and deadly spears, wearing beaded necklaces which glimmered on their bare breasts in the unforgiving desert light, that did not know the meaning of fear. Strider looked at the woman who stood chatting with four hobbits, brazen and clever with a thousand foreign words at her tongue, and thought―

"Indeed…"


	4. The Quick, the Dying, the Deathless

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you so much to those who reviewed! Y'all are fantastic. I honestly thought this little fic wouldn't get any attention, as I'm basically calling out Tolkien for racism… but hey, y'all have proved me wrong! Here's another one, after much delay (college, summer study abroad, you know how it is). Someone will be stabbed. Stones are thrown. Dwarven axes are used to threaten the undead. Trees are somehow involved. Nothing goes very well. Again, keep reviewing! I like feedback soooo much.

Side note… Someone asked me what actress I picture Cameron as, so they had a better visual idea of her looks. Basically Tessa Thompson when she's in Thor Ragnarok, but _very slightly_ lighter, Chicanx-Native/White instead of Afro-Panamanian/Chicanx, and much taller. Cameron inherited her father's tall gene. Quite buff from working as a medieval lumberwoman. Carrying a dwarvish axe. With a cute black kitty…. Yeah.

" _Italics"_ when used in dialogue indicates foreign language(s) to Middle Earth. Normal text is Westron. _Italics_ when not used in a dialogue context is for emphasis. " **Bold** " is any Elvish dialect, because I'm lazy about writing out Sindarin/Quenya conversations. If I ever use the word "God/ **God** " outside of italics, know that it's just an equivalent word for Eru in context.

* * *

 **Chapter Four: The Quick, the Dying, and the Deathless**

* * *

On the sixth day of their journey to Rivendell, the small company had finally left the horrid Midgewater Marshes behind. All of the hobbits were ecstatic, Bill didn't have to struggle so much on his weak pony legs, and Trepadora was back to occupying the little people with her antics. Strider had become solemn―more so than he had been before―ever since Cameron demonstrated her skills as a slinger. She was somewhat concerned, though truthfully she didn't linger on the worry for long. The lumberer was still foraging for the halflings, and it was tiring business searching for edible morsels. Waiting with baited breath for the heavy weight that signaled the approach of black riders to settle forebodingly in her chest also didn't help her stress levels. Checking on the kitten to make sure she hadn't become a nuisance was one task that kept Cameron sane. Both she and Strider switched off hunting every evening, trying their best to keep their stores of food reasonably plump. Though salted venison and cured coney were not anyone's favorite, it was something to fill an empty stomach. The ranger was wary of lighting too many fires, leaving trails for possible enemies to locate. Cameron, with her paranoia heightened by a fellow paranoid traveler, went to great lengths to mix their tracks and hide hoof prints.

Just yesterday, a few hours before dawn, Frodo had spotted a light off to the east. It flashed and faded intermittently, pulsing like a beating heart. Whatever it was, it clearly hadn't been the early morning light pouring over the horizon. As a result, the hobbit roused his friends, who then proceeded to jump on Cameron in a volatile fit of anxiousness. _Did hobbit feet just break my rib? Maybe, possibly. Shit that hurts!_ Shuffling up from her place next to a bundled-up ranger, who as a consequence of the halflings' riot of panic was already awake, turned to look in the direction they specified.

"That is not natural," The lumberwoman said smartly. She was not coherent enough to make any intelligent observations in Westron.

Strider, on the other hand, didn't like it at all. "I do not relish in being confronted with what I cannot understand," he asserted. "Not this. It is too distant to make out. It is like lightning that leaps up from the hill-tops."

For the rest of that day, the ranger was wound tighter than a coiled spring. His hand strayed to the hilt of his sword numerous times and he constantly questioned Cameron about what she could sense. Do you feel them? What can you perceive on the air? Can you hear the call of their power? _No. Nothing, ranger. My God, Strider, stop fretting!_ She then commenced ranting about her meager abilities for nearly an hour in Sindarin, concluding with a threat of burning his hair completely off his head if he didn't calm down. Three of the hobbits, though they didn't understand what was said, found it extremely amusing. Frodo was nearly brought to tears, with Trepadora chuffing loudly as a parody of guffaws. The poor man's countenance looked properly chastised, but that didn't stop him from fussing over campfires, checking the surrounding area for questionable tracks, and generally attempting to give himself an aneurysm. He did not know the meaning of chill.

Now their troop was aiming for a very high hill, vaguely conical in shape and topped with a blobbish fat clump of grey. Was it rock, was it stone brick? A ruin? A medieval McDonald's? Cameron didn't know. She'd never been out this far east in Eriador. Her range was small.

"That is Weathertop," Strider explained. "The Old Road, which we have left far away on our right, runs to the south of it and passes not far from its base. If we are so fortunate, we might reach it by noon tomorrow, if we go straight towards it. I suppose… it is better we do so."

"What do you mean?" asked Frodo.

"I mean that when we do reach our destination, I am not certain what we shall find there. It is close to the Road, and the black riders are watching them."

"But surely we are hoping to find Gandalf there?" the brunette hobbit insisted. "The letter said such; to watch for him. Perhaps he is what we will find waiting."

"Yes," the ranger said hesitantly, "But the hope is faint. If he comes this way at all, he may not pass through Bree. In all truth, he may not know what we are doing or where we tread. And anyway, unless by luck we arrive almost together, we shall miss one another; it will not be safe for him or for us to wait there long. If the black riders fail to find us in the wilderness, they are likely to make for Weathertop themselves. It commands a wide view all round it, higher than the trees. Indeed, there are many birds and beasts in this country that could see us, as we walk here, from that hill-top. Not all the birds are to be trusted, and there are other spies more evil than they are."

"If it is such a gamble, why risk it?" Cameron debated. "You say it is close to the Old Road, and it offers a high view. The undead have all the advantages in this, leaving us with none. Would this Gandalf wish to encounter the undead just to meet us? He risks much more; he is only one, magic or no. And birds? Animals? I know Wilhelmina's cats were strange, but please. If that is true, the black riders would already be upon us!"

"We are all the hobbits have to protect themselves," he retorted gruffly. The man didn't seem content to be standing in the open and discussing their course, and it was made clear by the tone of his voice. "Sometimes risks must be taken. Or do you have a better idea? Because your little spells will not protect us."

The young woman ignored the jab at her tricks. "Is there not another way to approach Weathertop? Or can we disregard it entirely, head for the next line of trees?"

He huffed a breath, but contemplated her words. "If we were to head straight eastward from here and make for the crest of hills beyond it, not Weathertop, it will afford us some cover and allow us to pass less openly. But there is no guarantee it is any more wise a choice than to simply approach the high hill. We have to travel close by the Old Road no matter what our choice is, as the wilderness here is too treacherous for four hobbits to traverse without incident."

" _Fine._ Yes. Great to know. I just don't want to get _fuckin'_ killed by undead!" she defended. "So we make for the hills?"

"The hills sound lovely," Sam said quickly, not keen to have their near-argument continue.

"I'd rather not be skewered hobbit, if you get what I mean," Merry added.

"Agreed!" said Pippin.

"I know better than disagree with Miss Stevens. She makes a sound argument," Frodo piped, with Trepadora mewling out in affirmation.

Strider sighed, drained, before walking ahead once again.

The land became drier and more barren with each step they took, but mists and vapors lingered at their feet blown in by autumn wind from the Marshes. A few melancholic birds were piping and wailing, until the sun began sliding back down to the horizon. Then an empty silence fell. The hobbits thought of the soft light of sunset glancing through the cheerful windows of Bag End far away, then went on to wax longful poetic about it to Cameron. They were more comfortable now with the birds seemingly gone. She thought it was somewhat saddening to think Strider's paranoia about animal spies was beginning to rub off on their innocent little hearts. _Yet change is inevitable, as the saying goes._

At the day's end, they came to a stream that wandered down from the hills to eventually lose itself in the stagnant marshland overfull with midges behind them. The ranger lead them along its banks while the light lasted. Cameron took that moment to sort out her rocks, shoving the white stones Wilhelmina gave her into the rucksack. She didn't think that they were of any use just yet, especially after what the hag had said in parting when she gifted them off. _Because rolling stones gather no moss, but gain a certain polish… Why reference change and experience, Wilhelmina, when you hand me stones that cannot be anything more than tools or pretty pebbles?_ Either way, the young woman was quick to gather stones, picking at the small collection that lined the slow trickle of water. She only came up with maybe two handfuls, which was quite pitiful. But there wasn't much light left for her to continue searching, and Strider had glanced back at her all too many times. _Is he an overly-tall nanny? Conceivably yes._

It was already night when at last their small company halted and made their camp under some stunted alder-trees by the shores of the stream. Ahead there loomed―against the dusky sky―the bleak and treeless backs of the hills. That night while the hobbits laid down to sleep, it was decided between Cameron and Strider that there should be a watch. With how close they were soon going to be by Weathertop, it was logical to have a more keen attention to their environment. The man promised to wake the young woman up to switch with him at midnight. Yet Strider, it seemed, did not sleep at all.

Next morning they set out again soon after sunrise, chewing on dried strips of venison for breakfast as they walked. There was a frost in the air, and the sky was a pale clear blue. Which, in Cameron's opinion, was surprisingly nice. Autumn in Arda was rarely so clear. It almost made her feel like she was home again… if she could ignore the growing stench of body odor fermenting the air around their group, the dwarven axe on her back, Trepadora silently riding the ranger's tense shoulders, and the increasing threat of the Nazgul hunting for them all. The hobbits felt refreshed, anyway. There was no grumbling, and the lumberer came across some late-reason almonds for them to munch on. Already the four were getting used to traveling on only two meals, in contrast to their near-mutiny earlier in their trek. Pippin declared that Frodo was looking twice the hobbit that he had been, with how slim he was.

"Very odd," Frodo said decidedly. He idly tightened his belt, "Considering there is a good deal less of me these days. Half the Shire would be in panic if they saw me like this. I hope the thinning process will not go on indefinitely, or I shall become a wraith!"

Pippin and Merry found the brunette's joke to be funny, sniggering. Sam smiled. Cameron rolled her eyes at the halflings' silliness, knowing very well about hobbit eating habits. _They all aim to be butterballs, these little guys_.

Strider―horribly on edge ever since he stayed up for watch an entire night―didn't find Frodo's comment the least bit funny.

"Do not speak of such things!" he said shortly, looking to all the world his most paranoid and cagey. Strider's behavior was worse than it was after the lightning incident. The hobbits were rightfully startled, cowed when faced with the towering man. Cameron made a face, perturbed for her sort-of friend. He really needed a solid eight hours of sleep, and then some.

The kitten on his left shoulder didn't seem to think he should be so dour, and batted at the ranger's scruffy cheek. And then again, only harder; like a slap to the face. It completely broke the tension. Cameron burst out laughing, holding her chest as if in case her lungs popped free. Strider's expression only seemed to darken more. Despite that, he reached up to pet Trepadora.

By around midday, though the lumberwoman was not the best at guessing the time by staring at the sky for answers, their troop had wound its way alongside Weathertop from its back. She knew that this was what she had argued for, but their path was still all too close to the landmark. Which, unfortunately, was not far from the main road. Cameron hated it, hated the proximity. Everything about their recent trek was problematic, yet Cameron didn't know what else they were to do beyond hurry on their way as quickly as possible. She even said as much as they skirted along the green-brown slope of the hill topped with crumbling cobblestone, but instead found herself abruptly contradicted by Strider.

"We must survey the area now in this hour of broad daylight, and have somewhere to stay for when the night falls upon us. There is not enough cover from here to the Trollshaws, and to carry on now would leave us too exposed come nightfall. Those hills will lend us too little protection, Cameron."

"What of our agreement?!" The young woman was shocked beyond words at the sudden change of heart. "We chose those hills! If you are so frit, I can fix it! Trees grow where I bid them, how I wish them. We should make for the hills, _you paranoid fucking dumbass_! Do not let yourself be ruled by fear!"

"You would risk the Ring on such a decision?" he demanded, "Especially one so foolhardy?"

"Yours is fool… Fools… Foolhardy!" she spat back, stumbling over the Westron word in her fury. "You said the undead will come here if they cannot find us out there. Then let us trick them! Leave something! Light fires! Make for the hills quickly, and I will hide us in a grove of my making!"

"A grove of trees? You are not Yavanna! Your spells do not have such power! Could not―!"

" _Try me, you lily-white son of a bitch!_ "

"Stop!"

The pair paused, turning sharply. Frodo stood surrounded by the other hobbits, sheepish but determined. "I know the Ring I carry cannot fall into the hands of the Riders, and that there is little hope of our company evading them. But would it not be wise to approach this problem with creativity? Lady Cameron can perform magic, stuff that I only ever thought Gandalf could manage. Her skills could be what saves us, Strider. You cannot disregard her reasoning and our decision so callously."

The ranger looked at the dark-haired hobbit with an intense gaze, unblinking. A storm raged there, churning and twisting until little emotion could be discerned from it. His hands tightened and loosened, his shoulders tense. The tendons along his throat jumped with each clench of his jaw. Cameron felt she wasn't watching a man struggling with himself under extreme duress, but a stallion chomping furiously at the bit as it attempted to rear back. Barely restrained, wrestling with both itself and its situation. Part of her felt it was partially her fault for his pertinacious actions, as the lumberer was well aware that she was a pain in the ass. More obstinate than a mule, always starting fights instead of avoiding them. The man was clearly just as unobliging as her on his bad days, when the paranoia and sleep deprivation was overwhelming. Good fortune seemed impossible in the face of looming danger and emotions running high. But their situation was bigger than them both, and the safety of the hobbits was the priority. _He must realize that._

Strider didn't so much as deflate as quietly hike up the slope toward Weathertop. The hobbits and Cameron stared after him with trepidation, but didn't move from where they stood. Ten minutes passed before he returned, and when he did, he simply lead them on without speaking.

His pace was punishing, but by the time they reached the crest of steep hills their group aimed for, the sun was just beginning to set. The hobbits toppled over like dominos the moment they stopped at one particular hill, shaded by the shadow thrown over the slope. _Now I feel like a raging asshole_. While Strider said there was little to no cover, there were actually quite a few scattered trees dotting the landscape. One such tree was near them and Bill was tied to it. Deeming that it was officially her turn to make good on her promise of trees, Cameron stalked off toward an oak and pine that stood close together ten yards away. Trepadora ambled along in her wake as the ranger's gaze burned into the lumberwoman's spine. Once reaching the trees, she searched the ground and eyed the small canopy overhead.

Her magic was, from what she understood, limited and fickle. If Cameron was capable of more, she had yet to puzzle out how to perform such feats. But with what she did know, the young woman was reasonably skilled at.

In the very beginning, Cameron had thought the rapidly regrowing trees was a simple fantasy phenomenon. An average occurrence. That is, until the lumberer accidentally willed the cut tree she was hauling over her shoulder _to grow_. Long story short, after a great deal of trial-and-error amongst the trees of Fornost, Cameron learned to manipulate plant life. It worked best if it was harvested from a living organism, such as a fallen branch, seeds, a leaf torn off a bush. Near-dead things were good too, like wilted plants or tree stumps. With a little bit of willpower and some mental visualization, she could grow something in whatever form she desired. Cameron just couldn't really influence already-living things. The Mithlond elves didn't have any advice to give her when she asked long ago; they were sea-faring, boat-building folk. They didn't know the tricks of handling live fauna.

So Cameron began gathering branches. More oak branches than pine, as Oaks were more malleable to shape than pines. She climbed the Oak and picked handfuls of mistletoe berries from the parasitic plant latched to its trunk. Eventually she came wandering back from her collecting, finding their little group sitting in tense near-darkness. Strider seemed to have never taken his gaze away from her the entire time. Trepadora leapt and climbed her with all the ambition of a prisoner seeking entertainment amidst captivity. Cameron felt bad for the cat.

"Branches and berries?" wondered a confused Pippin.

"Pine trees, Oak trees, and nature's deadly pearls," she replied. "The old hag was a maddening woman, but I did learn from her some things. _Mistletoe_ can ward off all evils, supposedly."

"Mist-lul-tooh? What is that?" Sam asked.

"The _English_ name of these," Cameron said, holding up the white berries pointedly.

"Oh! You mean Mistletoe!"

The lumberer made a face. She hated the Westron word of Mistletoe, it sounded very much like saying _mashed twiggings_ , which held no similarity to the pronunciation of the English word. She decidedly shook her head at the hobbit before pacing around their camp in a loose circle. Cameron stabbed the branches into the dirt as she went, creating a questionable fence. She repeated the pattern with the mistletoe berries before sitting in the perfect center of their encircled camp.

"What now?" Merry blurted, though his voice was hushed. The other hobbits shrugged. Strider did not break his silence, his eyes locked on the strange ritual being prepared.

"Now," Cameron spoke, legs crossed while she held her axe like a King's staff beside her, "I demand these branches and berries to _grow!"_

The branches shot up, turning from fallen waste to tall arching spears of wood. The oak saplings thickened, their roots coiling outwards before sinking deeply into the soil. Branches and leaves fanned out overhead, weaving themselves into patterns and shapes that defied possibility. The pines towered and creaked. Mistletoe crawled and stretched across the trunk of every tree, sprigs of bright leaves and white berries sprouting riotously. When all was settled, there was an immovable living wall surrounding them. Barely any space was given between each tree; only enough for an arrow or stone to be shot through. No wraith could enter without suffering from the mistletoe… That is, if Wilhelmina was to be trusted. Absently, Cameron crossed herself.

"M-M-My word!" stuttered a shocked Sam.

"Fantastic," Merry breathed in honest awe.

"Again!" Said Pippin. Frodo glanced at the hobbit incredulously before returning his gaze to the canopy. The foreign patterns woven by the branches entranced him with their complexity.

Cameron chuckled, standing up from the center. "Nice to see you happy. We should be safe now. Nothing can enter without me knowing."

The hobbits nodded, immediately going about setting up camp. Bill contentedly chewed at the grasses inside their natural wall, unfazed by the feat of magic just performed. Strider finally moved from his place by the pony. The young woman braced herself for another argument or perhaps some form of cautious inquiry.

She did not expect a quiet apology.

"Forgive me yet again," he said softly in the dim light. The man seemed settled again, normal. His behavior reminded her of that late night spent at the Sanctuary, when his patience seemed unending and his manner was kind.

"I allowed my worries and bitter pride to rule my actions," Strider spoke, substantially unhappy with himself. "You are a continuous source of surprise and resourcefulness, Cameron. My harsh words against your spells were uncalled for."

The lumberer blinked owlishly for a moment. She shook her head, slowly smiling. "All is forgiven. I know I can be… Frustrating? Much of the time. Too stubborn, as you have seen on this journey. Between the two of us, there is enough worry to drown Eriador."

Strider smiled in kind at her comment. "You may be right. Though I am still unsure how much you understand of the situation, the Ring is of great concern to the fate of this world, to the Free Peoples. We cannot allow it to be taken. As such, the weight of our journey is great."

She nodded. "I do, I remember. Do not fear, Ranger. I will do what I can to ensure the trinket arrives safe to Rivendell. As for me…" Cameron drew out, " **I'm quite honestly done with Nazgul and cruel townspeople. To hell with making a profit from woodworking. Building elven ships and reading books in libraries seems like a way more stable lifestyle at this point**."

The ranger chuckled, responding in Elvish as well. " **You are not wrong.** "

Dinner was a cheerful affair, as Strider allowed Sam to make a small fire. There were enough gaps at the top of the canopy for smoke to filter through, and the trunks were thick enough to hide the flames. With what supplies they had, the plump hobbit managed to throw together a tasty, savory stew with salted coney. A warm meal was undeniably welcome after days of chewing morosely on dried meat and foraged foods. Everyone's spirits were lifted. Stories of Pippin and Merry's antics in the Shire were shared, along with some hilarious anecdotes involving an adventurous Frodo, his eccentric uncle with a history of burgling, and Sam. Cameron had a few stories, though admittedly most of them involved winning bets by fighting dumb Breelanders and winning or drinking games gone awry with dwarven miners. Strider chuckled and smiled plenty, and told a few Elvish tales he knew. He even sang ballads. The lumberwoman wasn't surprised, as the ranger gave off something of an air. Quietly regal, intelligent, and aged like a timeless artwork. That, and the scholar in her always appreciated good conversation.

Either way it was a nice evening. Eventually, after most of the stew had been consumed, Frodo looked to the canopy once again.

"Lady Cameron, what patterns are woven into the trees? I have never seen such intricate designs."

The lumberer lifted her head, which had been bowed to rub against the velvet soft fur of Trepadora. The cat was happily eating Cameron's leftover coney from the bowl in her lap.

"Hmm? Oh, the _fractals?_ They are shapes created from… from _infinity_ , that which is constant. It is _curves_ and _geometric figures_. They happen… _in repeated patterns that are either partly random or chaotic, similar_ to a _kaleidoscope. The artistry of_ **folding** _galaxies mixed_ with _the_ **creation** _of_ **coastlines and snowflakes** ," she struggled to explain in too many differing languages, gesturing roughly as she went.

"Cameron," Strider chided gently, " _English_."

"Heheh, _whoops_ ," the young woman mumbled, embarrassed. "I don't think I can speak it in Westron. I am in need of more words."

"Can you explain it in Elvish?"

She shook her head, " _English_ is hard to… _transl―recrea―interpret—_ uh, remake? To remake in Elvish. I told this to Frodo, when we spoke in the Prancing Pony. I told this to you too. _English_ … _English_ **as a language has too many words for things your world does not have. There are no equivalents.** _English_ **is also a language made up of other languages spoken in my world.** _French, Spanish, Greek, Latin_ … **It is a bastardized mess of a language that is very hard to learn. Perhaps once I learn enough Westron, I will write books on it. It'd be a shame for my language to be forgotten, I think, because it is in some ways an excellent example of a complex, ever-evolving language.** "

"Then Rivendell's library will be of great service to you when we arrive there, Cameron. Lord Elrond has assembled it himself for years, and it is a source of a great many tomes; especially on the topics of Men's languages. If you do ever write books about your world's languages, he would be quite interested in owning them."

At his words, a peculiar glimmer of hunger shone in her eyes. It was, Strider assumed, the ever-ravenous hunger of a scholar seeking knowledge. Frodo looked amused. It reminded him of his bookish uncle.

"You tempt me greatly in many ways," the young woman said.

"Maybe someday you shall teach me _English_ ," the ranger commented. Cameron wasn't fooled by his casualness; he had the same glint in his eyes as her own.

She almost laughed. " **I'd like to see you try, ranger. Though, you have learned some words.** "

He nodded, " _English,_ the name of the language you speak most often. _Spanish_ , a language your mother speaks. _State, United States of America, California, Earth…_ then a number of curses, which I am sure to butcher when I speak them."

Now Cameron laughed. "HA! I doubt it! I curse too much. **You must have learned something.** "

He made a face. "Sh… _Shit, Jesus Christ, fuck_ … a _disgusting, pig-headed, shit-stewing motherfucker_?"

Cameron was just about rolling on the ground, cackling with every inch of her body. Trepadora leapt out of her way, chasing after the bowl that tumbled off the young woman's lap. " _Y-Your face! Oh my God, your fucking face! Hahaha! Hah! That was iconic!"_

"I assume I pronounced them wrong?" he asked wryly.

The lumberer giggled where she laid, holding her chest as her diaphragm struggled to keep up with her laughter. "No, no. It was good. **What you repeated was just hilarious. I didn't think you'd remember what I called Bill Ferny.** "

"I did. It is something that struck me as peculiar at the time―"

 _SCREEEEEAAAAAH!_

The ranger and lumberer were on their feet in seconds. Sam, overcome by panic, dumped the remainder of the stew on the fire. Trepadora yowled angrily, spitting and hissing at the trees. A weight squeezed at Cameron's chest, tightening like the coils of a snake. The rapid onset of the pressure had her staggering, gasping desperately for air. Strider grabbed the young woman by the shoulder, steadying her.

"Cameron? Cameron?!" Strider spoke urgently, disquieted.

"I'm fine," she rasped, fumbling with the leather thong and freeing the axe from her back. "T-Th-They're coming!"

The hobbits were quick to huddle together, almost merging into a single cloaked entity with numerous furry feet. Strider rushed to his bedroll, rustling through his possessions until he came upon a wrapped bundle. Striding back to the hobbits, he unrolled it. Four weathered daggers―swords in the hands of halflings―were swiftly distributed. All of the recipients looked uncertainly at the weapons in their hands.

"These are for you. Barrow-blades. Keep them close, and do not hesitate to use them!" Strider gruffly explained. He turned to Cameron. "I saw you extinguish the lamp over the doorway of the Sanctuary; can you create large flames as well?"

"Yes. By hand, stone, and steel. I can make light as well. White light, like the morning sun."

"Nazgul burn with flames, suffer from it. The take flight from light, especially that which is the purest. Make whatever you can and prepare to defend your grove!"

Cameron nodded, grimacing. Her chest felt heavy, her lungs strangled. Whatever strange power the undead had, it tricked her body into thinking it was close to complete suffocation. She struggled to take a stance, holding her dwarven axe unsteadily. _I am not afraid, I am angry. They think that we can be attacked, that my trees can be uprooted so easily? Wait until you taste the bite of mistletoe, you fucking dementors!_ The young woman took a shaky breath, then another. Trepadora walked between her legs, purring reassuringly. With each confident thought, her lungs loosened. The weight grew manageable. She reached into her pockets, grabbing a handful of river stones. Closing her eyes, she thought of LED lights, the blinding quality of them. Then she breathed. The simple river stones slowly frosted, lightening considerably until they were marble white.

She smiled for a moment, pleased with her success. But only for a moment. Cameron ran to the hobbits and handed each of them a stone. They looked at her as if she had become as mad as Wilhelmina.

"If any of the undead come through the grove, grasp the stone and think of the light seen at dawn. The stones do not last forever but will protect you well."

Then she handed one to Strider, who stood only a foot away. He must have followed her, listening to what she told the halflings.

" **Hopefully my magic stones won't be needed. But if the mistletoe doesn't work and the Black Riders manage to smash their way through the trees… It will not be fun at all.** "

 _SCREEEEAAAAAAAAAH!_

The thunderous rumble of hooves echoed in the night, along with the vulture-like screams of the wraiths. They circled the grove, searching for a weakness. Cameron flinched at their synchronized call, but didn't hesitate to grab for more stones in her pockets. Trepadora hissed and spat, yowling out a challenge as she climbed atop the lumberer's right shoulder. The hobbits drew their small blades, staying huddled. Strider kept himself busy, scavenging a large branch and wrapping torn fabric from his bedroll in a wad at the top to create a makeshift torch. As the lumberwoman finished creating herself a mixture of black and red stones―for burning and for death― the ranger offered the torch.

"If you would?"

Pausing, she dropped the stones back into her pockets. The young woman reached out with her free hand. Fire danced across her fingers at her wordless command. Strider watched, momentarily mesmerized by the simple yet impressive show of magic. The small flickering flames wavered before leaping for his torch. It immediately caught alight, burning brightly.

And not a moment too soon, as a great crash sounded. A large chunk of a tree flew over their heads, scattering splinters over their heads. Mistletoe berries were smeared across the ground and along the bark of the oak trunks. Pippin and Merry yelled in terror. Cameron grabbed for her sling, loading one of the stones in the cradle. The hole in the living wall was big enough to fit someone through. A single, armored hand curled around the entrance, followed shortly by its fellow bearing a dark blade. Strider drew his.

" _Well fuck_ ," Cameron cursed, before swinging her sling twice and launching.

The stone struck true, and suddenly a wraith was ablaze. It screeched, stumbling back. Another quickly took its place, and suffered the same fate. And then another. And another. Flames licked along the trees and smoldered. Cameron, with an axe in one hand and a sling in another, scoffed callously.

" _Is that all you got?!_ " she yelled, shaking her axe in the air as a declaration of war. Trepadora yowled along with her. " _You can't fuckin' catch these hands, ya' dumb goddamn undead assholes!_ " The hobbits stared up at Cameron, with awe and confused fear. Just what was she saying?

Then there was a whoosh of air―heavy, uneven―and a black dagger was flying at her face. With barely a thought, the lumberer knocked it away from herself with her axe and slung another stone at the opening. Flames leapt to life upon another wraith, who screeched, and another dagger was thrown. Strider knocked it away with a swing of his longsword. It seemed as though they were winning.

But they were not prepared for the remaining four wraiths to bum-rush them, charging like bulls instead of loping forward like foreboding ghosts. Cameron was forced to drop her sling to catch the blade of one wraith with her axe, and Strider threw himself into the fray sword swinging. In the corner of her eye, she watched the ranger take them all on. It was a perilous juggling act, dashing about to clang his longsword against one obstacle and then angrily wave the torch at another like a berating parent bearing a rolling pin. The lumberer thought it was impressive, keeping up that sort of physical strain. Meanwhile, she fought to halt each blow of the wraith's evil blade from cutting her down; its swings were as heavy as hers. It made it all the more obvious to her how unnatural her opponent was. Trepadora hissed on her shoulder, swiping at its black cloak and tearing it. The cat revealed more of its contorted black steel armor, which groaned with each movement the wraith made. Cameron spotted an opening when the undead killer pulled his sword back, and took a chance. Wrapping her left hand in flames, she grabbed at its hood. The wraith screamed directly into her ears, and the lumberer swore her eardrums were bleeding. It dropped its sword, grappling with her. Which was not a wise decision, as Cameron's foreign strength was capable of hauling pine trees for miles. The armored hands dug into her clothes, cutting into the flesh of her arms. She attempted to throw it down but it managed to hold on with one hand. The force of the lumberwoman's throw made the armored hand drag through the meat of her upper arm. She yelled out in pain, struggling to dislodge it. She swung the axe down on the wraith one-handed. Behind her, unseen, another wraith drew a dagger and held it over her head.

As the axe connected, an overpowering, freezing pain shot up her arm. The dagger stabbed through her shoulder, through bone, and out the other side. Her axe fell from her useless grasp. Cameron's yelling turned to screaming. She collapsed to the ground in unspeakable agony, blinded by it.

Distantly, she heard the hobbits cry out her name. She could hear the clash of steel, the screech of the wraiths. An ominous thumping by her head. Her kitten, her cat, Trepadora, shrieked somewhere to her left. What sounded like a weak growl exponentially grew into a roar, and some large creature charged forward. Cameron could barely pay attention to what was unfolding around her; only paw at her shoulder and scream in garbled English. Her own blood coated her fingers, and she felt as though ice was turning her shoulder into solid rock. A light flashed, and the world around her went quiet except for panicked breathing and the soft rumble of a… Jaguar? A lion? Leopard? Lynx? House cat? The pain she was feeling must be confusing her senses.

Then Strider was beside her, the hobbits crowding around him.

"Lady Cameron? Cameron!" cried Sam, harrowed. She felt little hands touch her arms gingerly, her face. "What's wrong with her? Strider, you got to help Lady Cameron!"

A larger hand replaced the smaller, fingers carefully searching the wounds on her arm and prodding at her shoulder. The young woman choked on another scream. He grabbed at something nearby, and it rang. It must be metal, perhaps a blade. He hissed in distaste.

"She has been stabbed by a Morgul blade and her axe touched a wraith. Such a thing can curse, and as such she is touched by the Black Shadow. Some know it as the Black Breath." He threw down the blade, though as it disintegrated to dust he tucked the hilt away. "This is beyond my skill to heal; we must make for Rivendell with all haste if she is to survive."

Arms snaked behind her back and her legs, lifting. Her head fell to rest against a chest, her shoulder continued to ache. Cameron could still hear a soft rumbling. She hoped she would survive this quest of theirs, or she was going to haunt them all out of sheer spite.

Including the pony.


	5. A Midnight Flight to the Ford

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks for the reviews, as always! I honestly never expected to rack up as many followers as I have! God, I love you all! Here I am with yet another chapter. Sorry if it's super late, but Happy New Year? ANYWAY, in this installment, our lumberer is too out of it to really semi-narrate her life. So this chapter is from everyone else's point of view. If it seems different from the movies, remember: I'm using a lot of the books with some help from the movies.

Please review! I like hearing your thoughts and opinions. It keeps me sane in these trying ass times tbh.

" _Italics"_ when used in dialogue indicates foreign language(s) to Middle Earth. Normal text is Westron. _Italics_ when not used in a dialogue context is for emphasis. " **Bold** " is any Elvish dialect, because I'm lazy about writing out Sindarin/Quenya conversations. If I ever use the word "God/ **God** " outside of italics, know that it's just an equivalent word for Eru in context.

* * *

 **Chapter Five: A Midnight Flight to the Ford**

* * *

Not a minute was wasted in vacating Cameron's circular grove, which dulled and drooped inwards with the fall of its creator. The strange yet beautiful _fractals_ loosened and collapsed. The leaves turned brittle and yellow. Those once proud, stolid trees cracked and became brittle firewood. What remaining growths of mistletoe shriveled and died, drying to an ominous shade of black tar. What little of their camp laid unpacked was quickly put back away. Sam fretted by Strider's side, Pippin and Merry were worryingly silent, and Frodo was ever more determined to reach Rivendell. There was more than simply the Ring at stake.

Cameron did not stir now, laying in the ranger's arms like a still-warm corpse. If not for her soft breaths brushing his neck, Strider would have thought her lost to them. It almost scared him how little she moved, how silent she was. Though he barely knew her longer than a handful of days and fewer than that in nights, the ranger felt he knew her reasonably well. The young woman was as quiet as she was loud; if she could speak better Common and was not so embarrassed by her lack of words, he was sure she would quip and joke the entire way to the Last Homely House. He knew it was luck that he had disabled her in the Prancing Pony, for now he knew her prowess in fighting and the immense strength she had. _Such strength_ , he marveled to himself, _that she disarmed and grappled with a Ringwraith like a hound unwilling to let go of its kill_. She was kind and attentive to those she called friends; the hobbits always had something to eat on the road because Cameron went out of her way to find them morsels to consume. She had magic, that which Strider could not fathom. Growing trees from dead branches? Calling upon fire to dance between her fingers? Striking deer with enchanted stones? Such things, though minor compared to the abilities of the wizards, were greater than anything a mortal in this world could perform. So foreign was this lumberer! She spoke in so many strange tongues and thought in such abstract fashions he wanted to pull his hair out at times. _She_ was frustrating. Maddeningly stubborn, mulish and proud, always prepared to meet any challenge given. Challenging him.

Yet now she made no noise, and Strider's fears for her future were many.

Their group pressed on through the night at a strenuous pace, the darkness surrounding them almost oppressive after their harrowing encounter with the black riders. The hills loomed over them, little bats chittered and flapped after bugs and flies, owls watched them pass by with unblinking eyes. At times the hobbits caught sight of the dirt road beneath their feet, other times nothing but rotting leaves and pine needles. They jumped at any sound and huddled close to Bill as they rushed along on their way. Who was to say the Nine would not come back? Frodo had been smart to use his marble white stone, to blind the wraiths that accosted Cameron and make them run from him. Pippin, Merry, and Sam had been quick to follow suit, yelling obscenities and throwing twigs at their cloaked backs. But the stones were shattered now, having fulfilled their purpose as Cameron said they would. All they had left to depend on was the torch Strider had handed to Frodo so as to light their way and…

Well, whatever that grand beast with startling blue eyes was.

"D'you think that is Lady Cameron's cat?" whispered Sam, glancing at the enormous animal that stalked silently in Strider's wake with uncertainty. It was nothing but a shadow in the nighttime, unseen except for its eerily pale irises.

"A cat? That beast?" Merry whispered back with a scoff, "That there is a lion, or perhaps a cousin to a lion. You know, like in Bilbo's stories! Great big cats with golden manes that Men cherish as signs of loyalty and courage. They put them on banners and things."

"I doubt it to be anything like a lion, Merry," murmured Frodo, who held the torch aloft as he watched the ground for dips and tree roots. "But it is some great feline, one I believe to be as strange as Cameron's tricks. Perhaps it has something to do with that old woman, Cameron's landlord in Bree. She was a queer one, surrounded by cats and babbling mad chatter."

"A night prowler then," Pippin decided. "A creature meant for hunting at twilight."

"You might be right on that," agreed Merry. "It sure leapt at that wraith with all the fury of Elbereth, like the dark face of her moon."

And the animal had, admittedly. It had appeared from thin air, the volume of its roar shaking the trees and the ground they were rooted in. It had pounced and tore at the Nazgul looming over the downed lumberwoman as if possessed by the anger of a righteous God. The claws on the beast were long knives when unsheathed, its teeth needle-daggers meant to rip and pierce. If the wraiths had been flesh, they would surely have been dead and mauled. The animal was as large as a Man's horse in length; its height would reach a stallion's shoulders.

"I wouldn't be surprised if that mad hag had something to do with the prowler," Sam remarked tersely. "Horrible company if you ask me."

They continued to rush on endlessly through the woods. The ranger wove around trees and forged through brush in nonsensical directions, weaving false paths and dead-ends. Briefly their group crossed a shallow valley, passed lazy hillocks and stumbled along the road for maybe a half hour before reaching some sign of progress: The Last Bridge. It was obvious to them Strider was growing almost careless in his frenzy to reach the Elves. He did not scout ahead, only glanced about, picked up some pretty little green stone, pocketed it with a furrowed brow, and march on. He careful not to jostle the woman he carried, fearful of infecting the wound with more than just the evil poison creeping through her body. It was only after they descended down a steep ravine and passed some old ruins that their troop came to stop in a clearing.

One that was surprisingly familiar to the hobbits, actually.

"Why Frodo, it is Bilbo's trolls! The ones that bickered so long, they turned to stone at dawn," Sam said, panting from exertion yet marveling at the discovery.

"Never would have thought I'd see them up close," Merry remarked tiredly. Pippin rapped his knuckles on the stone, nodding.

Frodo took a moment to stand in awe too, but the murmurs of pain slipping from Cameron's lips drew his attention back to the matter at hand. Their punishing pace left him and his companions well beyond simply weary. Strider, in contrast, was not idle. He was quick to pack the lumberer in for warmth. She was swaddled in bedrolls, her head cushioned by his pack. The ranger was working his flint, starting a cooking fire. The prowler carefully laid atop her as a living blanket, rumbling quietly. Comfortingly. Sam swiftly sidled up to the Man, his fellows in tow.

"What can we do?" he asked anxiously.

"What healing I can perform requires Athelas. You would call it Kingsfoil in Common. I do not have enough to tend to all of Cameron's wounds. Take the torch and hunt for it nearby! It is known to grow among the roots of trees, where it is dark," Strider instructed. "I need to boil water. The heat will help fight off the chill of the Black Breath."

Pippin and Merry looked at Sam, sheepish. Frodo was unsure where to begin; his skills were more in the realm of helping Strider with what he was doing than hunting for herbs. Sam clearly decided to take matters into his own hands, for he spoke with surprising authority.

"Mr. Frodo, you should stay with Longshanks," said the plump hobbit, grabbing the torch from where it was stuck in the ground. "And probably Pippin too. With his dumb Tookish luck, he'll only be bringin' back crabgrass and hemlock! Me an' Merry'll go."

"That's probably for the best," Frodo acquiesced, "With the Ring still drawing the Riders to us, I shouldn't leave Strider's side."

Pippin huffed a bit, but nodded. "Fine. I don't really know what Kingfoil is, anyway."

"It's a weed, Pip, little flowery plants that grow in the shade of bushes and oaks back in the Shire," Merry jested. "And it's Kingsfoil, not Kingfoil."

"Yes, but why bother calling it that? Not enough Kings to foil, and since it can heal, it's not something with a record of successful foiling. 'Should be called Kingsfriend or something of the like!"

Merry and Sam stared at him, looking close to hitting the Took over the head to save them all from his ridiculousness. Tooks! Maddening hobbits, they are. The pair set off into the forest, mindful of the sticks and debris that littered the ground. Halflings were already very quiet-footed, but a little more conscientious stepping made them essentially silent.

Frodo wandered closer to Strider, who sat beside Cameron in the same way a statue would stand vigil over a graveyard. Noiseless, unmoving, strangely intent. The fire was burning brightly two feet away, throwing out waves of heat and light. A pot was suspended over the flames by a high bar crafted from branches; the water within slowly rose to a boil inside it. Pippin sat on the other side of the fire, retying his scarf and wrapping himself determinedly in his cloak. Frodo tentatively moved to sit beside the lumberer, the black prowler setting its piercing gaze upon him as he did so. Neither blinked for some time.

"She will not harm you, Frodo. Though I do not know what magic changed her form, Trepadora only protects her master," Strider spoke suddenly.

The brunette startled terribly at the ranger's voice, but quickly settled. "That is Cameron's cat? Sam and I were right then. That hag's magic probably made her this way."

Strider didn't say anything else to the hobbit, which would have been counted as rude in Frodo's book if he wasn't aware of just how worried the ranger was. Reaching out with long arms, the tall man pulled the boiling pot off the bar and settled it beside him. Unsheathing a knife, he moved to cut her coat and shirt for better access to her wounds. Frodo attempted to help, holding the bedrolls away so he could have a clearer view of her clothes.

Cameron―of course―chose that moment to regain consciousness.

Her eyes shot open and she flailed near-violently. Strider immediately retreated, his countenance a picture of utter shock. Frodo followed suit. Trepadora grumbled unhappily, jolting with Cameron's panicked limbs. She bumped the young woman's head with her own, growling.

" _W-What the fuck? Tr...Treh...Trepadora, how'd you get sooo big?_ " she slurred in English, patting at the beast's head. The pain heavily clouded her thoughts. " _Serve to… to my needs, my ass! Will…_ Wilhelmina' _s fuckin' crazy._ "

"She is more hardy than I thought!" the ranger cried, flummoxed. "Just how enduring are _Earth_ folk?!"

"Enough to fight against the afflictions of wraiths, it seems," Frodo said sardonically, though internally he too was bewildered. It took a moment for Strider to reel in his reaction.

"Help me strip her coat off," he eventually ordered, "Now that she is awake, it will hopefully be easier."

With one arm, Cameron was dazedly stroking the prowler's―Trepadora's―fur, muttering in what appeared to be a nonsensical fashion. " _You, you should get smaller or somethin,' Trep. Ya' can't ride nobody's shoulders like this... Impressive though. 'Never thought I'd be able to pet a Panther. You could probs' eat_ Bill Ferny _and all his buddies for dinner…_ Wilhelmina' _s magic is kinda' fuckin' badass… crazy bitch…."_

Strider awkwardly pushed at the big animal while tugging at the woman's heavy coat. Cameron giggled, unaware of what was happening. The beast grumbled and rumbled like a whining beehive. Frodo was at a loss. What does one do when confronted with an obstinate animal of such size? Trepadora's long tail lashed, swatting at the ranger passively. She bared her long fangs and rows of sharp teeth, teasing at a threat. Strider was wary at the intimidating sight, but not about to give up. Instead, he decided to try a different approach.

He smothered the animal with affection.

Thorough pets mixed with some whispered Elvish was enough to disengage the big cat from her master. Trepadora turned into a massive ball of black fluff, purring like a clamorous hailstorm. _To think a cat can be as easily swayed as a horse_ , the tall man mused unsurely, the beast in question shoving her head against his chest for more ear scratches.

While he dealt with the rebellious yet friendly beast for a moment, Frodo watched Cameron slip back into unconsciousness. The lumberer shivered in the thick cocoon she was wrapped in, lips rapidly paling to a sickly color. Her dusky skin was tinted with an unhealthy pallor that alluded to frostbite. Sam and Merry came scurrying back to their camp, fists full of Kingsfoil. Clumps of dirt still clung to their roots. Frodo was thankful to the Valar for his friends' perfect timing.

"We weren't sure how much you'd be needin,' what with how many wounds Lady Cameron's got like you said, so we pulled up as much of it as we could carry," Sam hurriedly explained, striving to hold the torch and five Kingsfoil plants in the same hand.

Without a word, Strider snatched the Kingsfoil from Sam's hand and quickly went to work stripping the leaves from the stems. Sam yelped in shock, backing away from the tall man. Merry swiftly tossed the remaining herbs by the bowl of steaming water, equally bothered. Frodo and Pippin comforted them.

"He's on edge. Cameron briefly woke, horribly delirious. Trepadora wasn't being very helpful either," explained the brunette hobbit.

"Wait, that prowler is Trepadora?" Merry almost exclaimed.

"I was right!" Sam said triumphantly. "I knew it!"

"I hope she gets smaller again, I rather liked her keeping my shoulders warm," mourned Pippin.

The big cat in question seemed to have heard them, for she huffed and ambled away from their camp. In barely a blink of the eye, she melted into the darkness of the night.

"Oh, now you've done it, Pip! You insulted her!" Merry admonished.

Thus, despite the fear of the Riders looming, the hobbits quietly squabbled in a very polite yet disorganized manner about the beast's departure. Bill chewed at a rough patch of grass a few paces away, tied to a troll's toe. Strider ignored the hobbits' chatter, crushing all the Athleas leaves he had stripped from the stems then tossing them into the hot bowl of water. He stirred it feverishly, tilting it so he could watch the once-clear liquid turn a murky laurel green. Turning to his supplies, he hunted for a clean rag. Upon locating it, the man balled it up and soaked it in the bowl. As he waited for it to sponge all the diluted water up, he wrestled Cameron from her coat. The ranger took a knife to her leather jerkin and linen shirt, carefully cutting it all away from her cursed wound. What Strider found was not at all a pleasant sight.

The horrifying puncture was as long as a hobbit's hand, the dagger having been roughly twisted in the shoulder when Cameron collapsed. The flesh was black around the tear, the veins tinted sickly shades that stood out on her dark skin. It weeped sluggishly, and the blood that oozed from it was watery yet gelatinous. It felt ice cold to the touch. The results were the same from the back.

Strider carefully wiped away the leakage. He grabbed the balled-up rag from the steaming bowl, picking up a few remaining leaves of Athleas as he went. He placed the little bits of green over the injury, forming a neat line. Then the ranger pressed the sopping wet rag down. Firmly.

The corresponding scream of pain echoed into the twilight. Cameron attempted to throw him off, but her flailing was not as strong as it had been. Her eyes cracked open, but they were glazed and distant. Paler too, not dark like the night sky. A bad sign that the Black Breath was beginning to take hold. Strider held on and kept the burning hot rag in place. His hands felt cracked, stinging, but he dared not stop. He barely noticed the hobbits, who had stopped bickering the moment the lumberer had screamed.

After fifteen minutes, Cameron's cries were hoarse and less distressed. Her eyes had darkened but not returned to normal. Lifting away the rag and peeling away the Athleas, he noted the veins were barely noticeable. The flesh around the wound was not as black as before. Strider wanted to take a moment to marvel at this foreign woman's physicality, the sheer endurance of her body. But he had other injuries to tend to, and could only think to silently pray to the Valar for her recovery.

He repeated the process six more times. Each cut on her arms was from a sharp armored finger of a wraith, rough and filthy. The back of her shoulder was not as severe when the man finally treated it. Cameron was sure to bear these scars for the rest of her life if she survived this curse. She looked stable when Strider finished, though in no way clear of danger. Truly, her only hope was to reach Rivendell by late morning of the next day. The ranger knew he could— perhaps with the help of the oversized feline—reach the Last Homely House in record time. He grew up wandering the hunting paths and horse trails surrounding Rivendell; knowledgeable was he when it came to shortcuts and hidden routes. Yet Strider couldn't abandon his mission either. Frodo and the hobbits desperately needed to reach the elven haven with the Ring. Their small group had evaded the Ringwraiths for now, but for how long?

What he really needed to pull off this quest was another horse. No, three horses! Three horses and their accompanying riders, all of them Dunedain. Filthy as they come, armed for anything and loyal to the bitter end. Oh Varda, he'd even take having his mischievous twin brothers riding to the rescue!

Yet as he finished wrapping the bandages upon Cameron's injured body, an agitated rustle of foliage broke the quiet of their camp. The hobbits leapt in fright, their little swords drawn and quivering. Bill fidgeted, yanking his reins. Strider scrambled to grab his bow, just barely knocking an arrow before the threat barreled out of the dark woods. He almost shot too, if not for the fact those pale blue eyes caught the light of the fire.

"Trepadora?" He questioned cautiously, watching as the prowler neared, sniffed at Cameron urgently, then began to circle the camp. She chuffed and grumbled, her chest rumbling exponentially louder with each circuit.

"Is it the black riders?" Pippin wondered nervously. "I mean, she was mighty angry when those wraiths were about."

"I would like to hope not!" cried Sam. "I've had quite enough of them! With Lady Cameron wounded, our chances of survivin' this journey is witherin' before my eyes!"

"Hush!" demanded Frodo, his pointed ears pricking. Strider was standing, having exchanged his bow for a longsword. The hobbits could barely hear it over Trepadora's racket, but it was there. The soft _clippity-clip_ of hooves.

The four halflings clustered together defensively, grouping near the cooking fire. Pippin nearly fell over, as his foot got caught on a bedroll. The ranger placed himself before the prone lumberer, determined. The hoof beats grew nearer, galloping fast in their direction. Then faintly, as if it was blown their way on a gentle spring breeze, they seemed to hear a dim ringing of small bells on the air.

"That does not sound like a black rider's horse," Frodo said, listening intently. The other hobbits agreed hopefully that it did not, but remained suspicious. Strider, however, sheathed his sword. He leaned forward, stooping to the ground, hand to his ear. Sam and Merry watched him skeptically, if not disbelieving. What did the man think he'd hear, tilting his head in such a way? Men's hearing was paltry compared to a hobbit's ears.

Clearer and nearer, the bells jingled and tinkled a sweet melody. The hooves were a rumbling call of thunder, and the ranger smiled widely. Almost joyful, which was an expression none of the halflings had ever seen him wear.

A white horse broke through the tree line. Its coat gleamed in the shadows and sparkled in the firelight. Its headstall flickered and flashed as if it were studded with gems or the stars themselves. At the steed was a rider with a streaming cloak, hood thrown back. Golden hair poured down to his ribs. His face was fair, though its expression was one of urgency and anxiety. Strider, upon seeing him, leapt forward with a cry.

" **Varda, I am beyond gladdened to see you!** "

The rider swiftly dismounted, grabbing the ranger in a rough hug. " **Ah, at last, Westman! Well met!** " his voice rang out clear in the night, and the hobbits immediately knew him to be of Elf-Kind. Yet the tone of that ringing voice was fearful and anxiety-ridden.

" **How did you find us, Glorfindel?** " Strider all but demanded, " **Was it father? Had he Seen us in need?** "

" **Not exactly. Some of my kindred journeying in the land beyond Baranduin had found some things amiss. Hobbits had reported to the rangers of riders in black asking after a hobbit by the name of Baggins. They were extremely distressed** ," the elf explained. " **My kin sent messages as quickly as they could. It was reported to us in Imladris that the Nine were abroad. Lord Elrond said you were astray bearing a great burden, and Gandalf had not returned yet as he planned. Not an hour after, he Saw something. He told me he witnessed a young woman, dark like an Easterner yet foreign in her looks, traveling with you. He saw trees growing as she bid them, fire dancing in her palms. There are few who can stand against the Nine, so he sent me."**

" **The woman Father Saw was indeed no Easterner. She is a foreigner from shores well beyond our reach; she is a Fornost lumberer who lives on the outskirts of Bree. The elves of Mithlond know her and call her friend, from what I understand. She is no enemy** ," the ranger was quick to defend.

" **I do not doubt your judgement, nor do we have time for it. You look horrible, Estel. What has transpired?** "

" **The Nazgul found us. Cameron—that is her name—is capable of magic. She crafted us a grove of oaks and pines, wrapped them in mistletoe. She hoped they would shield us from attack, but her efforts were for naught. We battled the Nine. Cameron disarmed and all but wrestled with one. She would have won, if another wraith did not come up from behind and stab her through at the shoulder. I have tended to her the best I can with Athelas. I fear she will not last the night.** "

Glorfindel's face was overtaken with shock, almost mystified. " **A mortal capable of magic? And she serves no greater master, no Evil with which she shares this power? And wrestled with a wraith? Are you mad?** "

Strider shook his head. " **Her heart holds no deceit, and I do not lie. She is foreign, Glorfindel. She is from another place entirely! She speaks languages I have ever heard, stronger than any mortal man of Arda, acts unlike the women of the West. There is nothing for me to compare her to.** "

The elf lord looked at the ranger unsurely, gaze growing ever more wary by the second. The words he next spoke were contrary to his previous remarks. " **I like to think of myself as someone who is not paranoid or unreasonably superstitious, but it seems all too well-timed for an… an anomaly such as her to make herself known now.** **I have never been to the East as it is now, but I have heard tales of the Eastern men...** "

" **Glorfindel, please,"** the man rebuked, " **I have been East, and those stories are nothing but tales to scare Gondorian children. You sound like a man of eighteen!** "

" **These are darkening days, Estel. The orcs grow bolder, the light of the Eldar fades, traveling the roads even in daylight is a risk few dare take. You cannot ignore this coincidence!** "

" **She saved me** ," Strider retorted sharply, " **She saved me from my own pride and paranoia. I have treated her poorly on this journey, not trusting her advice or believing in her skills. Yet she ensured the hobbits never went hungry or that the Ring fell into the hands of the Nine. She lays there now at Mandos' doors because of us, and I will not abandon her to such a cruel fate because you believe in fear mongering."**

The elf stared past the man, gaze falling upon the vulnerable woman wrapped in blankets by the fire. The hobbits had broken away from their protective huddle upon Glorfindel's appearance. Frodo knelt by her now, tucking the fabric corners around the lumberer fretfully. Sam hovered, wringing his hands. Pippin and Merry sat opposite Frodo, watching with uncertain eyes. A black beast laid next to the prone woman's head, its pale blue irises locked with his. It looked accusingly at him.

" **I only found your camp because of that beast, you know,** " said Glorfindel. " **It ran at my horse, took a daring swipe at my boot, then ran off. I made chase. I could hear its agitated growling.** "

" **Then you should know that her master is Cameron. The cat is no fool; she probably found you as it wandered the woods and lead you here**."

The blonde stood silent. Strider's gaze bore into him. The ranger never would have thought that the very elf who had taught him swordplay as a child would be so quick to judge another by their appearance. Would a Firstborn like Glorfindel really be so obstinate and contrary? And to think he would take the biased words of far-away Men as truth! He thought the lord better than such. _Perhaps Cameron's words that night in the Marshes has changed my perceptions more than I thought._

After a few moments, the elf turned to the ranger and said in Westron, "If she is to live past this night, someone must take her to Rivendell."

Strider's shoulders eased in mild relief, yet did not completely rest. "If the Ring were not our greatest concern, I would have you take her away on your horse," he said bluntly, "Yet Frodo must reach Rivendell before the Nazgul find us again. We stand no chance of surviving another encounter, especially if I am not here to guide them."

"That oversized prowler appears big enough to bear her and another. Will it not allow you to ride it?"

"I've not exactly had the time to try," Strider said, flippant.

"Well, if it is willing to carry you both, I can shorten the stirrups on my saddle and make it so Frodo can ride to Rivendell on my horse. He knows the way home, and he rides smooth. I can stay behind with the little ones, you and Frodo can forge ahead."

The ranger turned to the hobbits. He was unsurprised to find them staring.

"Well? Shall Glorfindel adjust his saddle to accommodate you? With you gone, the Wraiths will not chase your friends if the elf lord is here to protect them," he addressed Frodo.

"An interesting name for an elf," whispered Merry.

"Shush," Sam muttered back.

"And Lady Cameron?" Frodo asked aloud, ignoring the murmuring around him. If his hand still lingered almost protectively on the lumberer's arm, no one commented.

"That would depend upon Trepadora," Strider remarked, looking at the animal in question. The big cat growled and gurgled, glancing between Cameron and the man. Demanding, onerous.

Taking a wild gander, he voiced his needs to the prowler. "Can you bear your master and I? She needs the care of the Elves, better than what I administered." He even knelt, making himself level with Trepadora.

She blinked, cocked her head. Her blue eyes glanced between him and her master, nosed the messy black hair atop Cameron's head as she trilled sorrowfully. Then she stood, ambling silently toward Strider. Trepadora stopped barely an inch away from his face, her hot breath making his eyes water.

The cat licked him from chin to forehead. It felt like he was being dragged across an unforgiving rock face.

"I guess the beast agrees," Glorfindel said, voice full of amusement as the big cat chirped like a tiny kitten at Strider's wrinkled expression of displeasure.

They did not waste any time in preparing the mounts. The elf lord quickly went about adjusting the stirrups, shortening the reins for easier use. Strider, with no saddle to secure upon Trepadora, did his best to make a makeshift one. Frodo donated his bedroll, and the man took Cameron's and his own to fashion a misshapen cushion. Glorfindel tore a long strip of fabric from his beautiful cloak to tie around Trepadora's middle, fastening the cushion in place. The poor feline looked very put-upon through the whole process. Frodo was lifted into the elf lord's saddle. Strider gathered Cameron and carefully mounted the night prowler, who was obliging enough to lay on the ground for easier access. Brief goodbyes were exchanged. Glorfindel looked at Strider with an unreadable expression on his fair visage. The ranger ignored it, too concerned with holding Cameron's chilled body to his chest and gripping the scruff of the black cat's fur.

With barely a whisper, Strider sent up one last prayer for speed and safety.

With nary a word, he and Frodo vanished into the gloom.


	6. Bedrest and Discomforting Revelations

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Was Glorfindel racist in the last chapter, you readers ask? To clarify, I'd like to think that he's a super old ass warrior who has seen so much (the fall of Gondolin, watched but didn't participate in the Kinslaying, served as Aredhel's escort, etc.) that he's extremely cagey of groups labeled/associated with the Enemy. And from what Eriador has heard of Eastern Men, they are not to be trusted/savages/other problematic Gondorian propaganda. Strider found himself shocked and somewhat disappointed that the warrior who had a hand in raising him is not as open-minded as he is. And that perhaps, between his wanderings and Cameron's bold talk back in Chapter Three, Strider has a better adjusted viewpoint.

Anyway, here's another chapter not long after the last one. It's a slightly shorter than normal and kind of an interlude, but it's still vital to character development and plot. I edited a few grammar errors in the previous chapters. You'll be happy to hear that I've planned the next twenty or so chapters too. And we're back to Cameron! Read and enjoy!

Also, do you think I should cross-post this on AO3? Would ya'll like that/is it more convenient/do you like the AO3 platform more or nah? Review and tell me, I'm interested to know.

" _Italics"_ when used in dialogue indicates foreign language(s) to Middle Earth. Normal text is Westron. _Italics_ when not used in a dialogue context is for emphasis. " **Bold** " is any Elvish dialect, because I'm lazy about writing out Sindarin/Quenya conversations. If I ever use the word "God/ **God** " outside of italics, know that it's just an equivalent word for Eru in context.

* * *

 **Chapter Six: Bedrest and Discomforting Revelations**

* * *

Pain comes in countless forms. Emotional trauma, loss of limbs, debilitating scarring, chronic aches, broken bones. A simple sentence wouldn't be satisfactory enough or serve as a proper summation of just how pain can manifest in a person.

For Cameron, she awoke to a type of pain that couldn't be neatly classified as either physical, mental, or psychological.

The young woman did not wake up slowly or lazily. She wasn't groggy or unable to focus. Cameron had simply found herself upright and altogether too conscious. Sunlight shone in from the open air windows and nearly blinded her, the bedsheets she was tucked under were impossibly soft and surprisingly warm. The lumberer lifted her arms, looked at the bandages wrapped about them. She couldn't move her left shoulder, and a quick glance confirmed that it too was wrapped up. The wounds the young woman knew were there felt like ice attempting to melt into her bloodstream. Horribly cold, wet, stinging at her nerves yet numb otherwise. They throbbed but they didn't feel hot like any healing injury would. She struggled to take a breath from how heavy her chest was.

Despite being in a safe location, Cameron found herself panicked. _Darkness darkness darkness nope no thanks get me the hell outta here take me home tonight goddamn I feel like a nervous Pomeranian on cocaine shit shit_ _ **shit**_ _!_

Everything was too real, too present. Cameron's shoulder joint seemed to be chilled to the bone, as if that wraith's dagger had cursed her with internal frostbite. Her gaze darted about desperately for a room temperature cup of water or blazing hot tea. God, she wanted to drown in Bengal Spice—the kind of bag tea that she used to love buying at Safeway for nightmarish colds or when her once-girlfriend got the flu—just so her upper body wouldn't feel like _a solid fucking iceberg_.

Cameron spotted her clothes folded into a neat pile, sitting atop a beautifully carved wooden chair across from her bed. Said bed also had an insanely detailed wooden bedframe. Whatever room she was in clearly was not designed or furnished by Men. Every wall and surface was decorated in Art Nouveau-style designs to match the furnishings. Or perhaps the furnishings matched the architecture? Either way, vines and leaves and woven branches covered every inch of… well, everything. The patterns never changed. It made the space too orderly and perfect. It made her poor, tired rucksack look threadbare and ugly from where it leaned against the wall near her clothes. On a desk, the lumberwoman's axe, sword, bowie knife, karambit, and sling were laid out. A pretty ceramic dish rested nearby full of river stones, pine seeds, and acorns. _Somebody emptied by pockets._ Trepadora was nowhere to be seen. At the bedside table to the woman's left, a tray laden with fruit, pastries, and porridge sat innocently. A silver pitcher next to a cup and saucer waited and gently steamed.

The lumberer lunged and nearly fell out of bed for it.

" _Tea, tea, glorious tea, tea, tea_ , _tea,_ " she chanted almost hysterically under her breath in English, pouring the dark brew to the rim.

She took the cup, with the dark leaf water sloshing over onto the saucer, and knocked it back like whisky. The instantaneous heat was so heavenly, it might as well have been a religious experience.

Calmer and feeling much more human than ice sculpture, Cameron poured a more reasonable cup with some honey added in. Her stomach all but bellowed for food, and three triangle shaped pastries disappeared in ten minutes. Fluffy, flaky, buttery, venison-filled pastries. Every bite was an utter delight. _Though compared to the spreads hobbits put out for meals, this is nothing. I would kill an entire battalion of armored men just so I could have a slice of Miss Clover Proudfoot's mincemeat pie._ She tossed some berries into the porridge, poured yet another cup of tea.

" _This is the kind of thing I should always wake up to find after a near-death experience_ ," she mused aloud, wiggling down into the bedcovers with the porridge bowl cradled in her hands. " _Fresh pastries, really good black tea, fruit, and some lukewarm oatmeal. I just about got a full continental breakfast._ "

"Are you speaking to yourself in _English_ again, Cameron?"

The porridge bowl almost flew out of the young woman's hands to meet a horrible end on the floor. Her head whipped around, and there the ranger was!

" _Jesus fuck_ —Strider, stop that!" she yelled. The overtly tall man grinned at her, which was a mild surprise. He never once offered anything more than a small smile on their journey. A brief laugh at Wilhelmina's and a soft chuckle now and again, but not an earnest grin. She actually assumed he was just a gruff, perpetually grimey ranger suffering from too much stress. Well traveled, apt to paranoia.

Yet standing in the doorway wearing elven-tailored clothes, a neater shave, and clean hair? Grinning like that? _Cute noodle man_. Soft greys and blues really suited him.

"It is a relief to see you awake," he said, "We feared you would not last the night, your wounds were so many."

"I am sure I was a sight. Are Frodo and the other hobbits okay? This is Rivendell, yes?"

The man nodded. "It is. Welcome to Imladris, Cameron. You can rest easy here; the Last Homely House is well protected."

"And has this place changed since you were young?" she prodded, teasing him. The ranger appeared so relaxed, the lumberer wondered if it was the fact this elven haven had once been his childhood home.

"A decade is barely a handful of minutes for an elf," he said wryly. "Nothing truly has changed, though some ellons I had known have sailed since I've been here."

"Ah, yes. I am sure Cirdan took care of them," she acknowledged between bites of oatmeal. "How are you? Where is Trepadora?"

" **What do you remember?** " he asked in Elvish instead.

Cameron shivered. " **Some seriously horrible pain, my own blood on my hands. The roar of a black** _panther_ **, maybe a lion? I passed out. Then I think I woke up briefly to Trepadora being four times her normal size? It's all a bit of a blur, to be honest.** "

His brow furrowed. " **What is a** _panther?"_

" **A big cat from my world. A little shorter than a lion, no mane, lithe. They climb trees, love to swim, and they run pretty damn fast. All-black coat. When they aren't black but spotted, they're called** _leopards_."

" **Well, she definitely became quite large when you were stabbed by one of the Nine. She actually fought off the remaining Ringwraiths with the hobbits.** "

Cameron made a face, shaking her head. " **Somehow, I'm not surprised the kitten can do that. Wilhelmina gave her to me with some cryptic words: A new friend, to keep your heart warm and serve your needs.** "

Strider blinked bewilderedly, thinking back to that harrowing night. " **It terrifies me how true those words are.** **Trepadora kept you warm while I attempted to create a tincture to treat your wounds. You live because she was able to carry both of us to Rivendell in time to save you from the Black Breath**."

" **The what?** "

" **The Black Breath, the Black Shadow. It is a curse caused by evil like the Ringwraiths. If you had not been treated, you would have turned into a wraith yourself.** "

The lumberer looked nauseous at the thought. " **Delightful. That'll haunt me for the rest of my life, thanks**."

He let out a chuckle, watching as she frowned into her porridge. The man glanced at the bedside table. A pendant strung on thick twine sat to the side, almost hidden by the breakfast tray, caught his eye. He picked it up, curious.

" **Is this yours?** "

Cameron glanced over, her expression surprised. " **Huh, I forgot I was even wearing it. It's one of the gifts Wilhelmina gave me. A token, when an exchange must be made.** "

It was a hag stone. An ironic gift coming from a legitimate hag, but also a mildly worrying one. Tokens and exchanges? Did… Did that witch foresee Cameron making a _courting proposal_ in the near future? But who would she be marrying? She had told him her planned move to Mithlond after surviving their short quest. Would one of the mariners be her betrothed?!

Wisely, Strider decided not to pursue the topic any further lest he baffle himself into a migraine. He put it right back where he found it.

Cameron, meanwhile, had other things on her mind.

" **How long have I been out and how much longer will I need to stay in this bed?** " she asked plainly.

" **A week, and one more week for your shoulder. Lord Elrond should be coming to take off the bandages on your arms some time today**."

" _Christ_ , **a week? And another week on top of that? Well there goes any plans I had for leaving immediately for Mithlond. Is that offer about using the Rivendell library still open? Because if I'm going to be stationary for another seven days, I could damn well use that time to make my Westron as good as my Sindarin.** "

Strider smiled. " **I am sure it is. If you wish, I can see if I can convince Erestor to lend you the books you will want. He is Elrond's advisor and resident scholar; that library is his kingdom.** "

She smiled excitedly right back. " **I would absolutely love that, thank you. It's been too long since I've held a book.** **Being around you and the hobbits, I've gotten more practice with speaking Westron than I normally get on average. I may have had a room at Wilhelmina's boarding house, but most of my time was spent felling lumber in Fornost or fur trapping from Forlond to Anuminas. Sometimes I had the company of a ranger or three like yourself, some dwarrow from Ered Luin, or a vicarious Mithlond elf… but otherwise I kept to myself.** "

The ranger opened his mouth to say something in response, but the Lord of the Last Homely House appeared in the doorway.

Cameron stared. She wasn't sure what she expected when she met Elrond, not that she ever really thought she'd meet him in the first place. The odd Mithlond river mariner would say that the half-elven lord was quite wise. Another would tell her about his valor during some large-scale war and his prowess in the healing arts. A town of elves settled by the bay of Harlond in Harlindon called him good-hearted to have created Imladris for all the Noldor refugees after the war. Cirdan the Shipwright himself named him a member of the White Council, a group of the most wise and ancient of Arda.

Yet staring at the elf, he just seemed like a calm, composed character with fine flowing robes and a silver circlet settled upon his crown. Like all elves, he features were ageless while his eyes were old. His hair was dark like the shadows of twilight and his gaze was grey as a clear evening. The lord stood with a venerable air, hands clasped. He politely tipped his head in greeting with a kind smile.

"Well met, lumberer. It has been many an Age since I have met a child of Man not of the West, and even longer since I have met one who is from a place beyond our shores."

Cameron bowed in her head in return, "Lord Elrond," she spoke. "I am Cameron Stevens, if Strider has not said."

The half-elven lord glanced over at the ranger, nodding as he walked toward her bed. "He has. He told me many things and I have Seen many more. You are friends with many yet none. You are a scholar, though you did not finish your studies before you arrived here. You are a Tád-Faer who does not suffer fools. You lived with a witch and fought a wraith with nothing but your strength alone. For someone who has a simple life, you are anything but plain."

The young woman wasn't sure if he was complimenting her or simply voicing a laundry list of cold hard facts.

"Tád-Faer? I do not have two souls," she remarked with some confusion.

"It means the same as the Adûnaic word Satta-banâth. I mean no insult by it."

She shook her head dismissively. "No, you are not wrong. Though, I am surprised you do not speak of my tricks."

Lord Elrond tilted his head, clearly not sure what she meant.

"She means her magic," Strider offered.

The lord nodded thankfully, turning his head back to the woman. He stared as if transfixed. "I was unsure if you were comfortable discussing it," he admitted. "As I assume this ranger has told you, Men do not wield such power without having offered themselves to the Enemy or have some elvish ancestors in their lineage."

"Yes, he told me. I am not bothered. You may ask."

"Then, I wonder: what are your talents? I Saw trees growing where you bid them, fire in your hands."

"I am good with a sling. I can make river stones change color. Red stones kill, black stones burn, and white stones shine. I can make many more, but I do not know what they do. I use red stones to hunt."

Lord Elrond was fascinated, thoughtful. His eyes still do not waver for her. "Interesting. How do you manipulate the trees?"

She shrugged, flustered by his attention. "I need seeds, branches, dead things. I cannot influence what already lives. Or I do not know how yet. I do not depend on my tricks beyond necessity."

"And the fire?"

"I will it to be."

The elf's expression quickly morphed into one filled with marvel, glancing between the two humans.

"So strange!" he proclaimed aloud, "I look at you and see the flame that blesses mortal men; the Gift of Men. Yet it is not fickle spark or one that is destined to burn brightly for only a moment. It is as though your heart is a wildfire untamed, a far flung blaze that rode on a distant gale. I see now just how foriegn you are, and I hope we can learn much from each other. Perhaps it is good fortune for us you appeared as you have, for the days are growing dark and your heart is a defiant light we may very well need."

Strider was dumbstruck. Cameron wasn't so receptive.

 _Well shit, no pressure or anything_ , she thought sarcastically. _It's not like I hate being reminded just how out-of-place I am, or that I can do some pretty weird stuff that nobody else seems capable of. No, not at all!_

"No, no," she countered, putting down her porridge bowl. "I have made sure the Hobbits reached safety. I have survived the undead. Once I am better, I leave for Mithlond. I am quite done!"

"She has suffered enough to ensure the Ring was not taken by the Nine. We can ask no more of her," the ranger rushed to say.

The kind lord became a warrior before their eyes. His gaze was stone. "Cameron, the Enemy is moving. Sauron's forces are amassing in the East, his Eye is fixed on Rivendell," he stressed. "And Saruman, Gandalf has told me, has betrayed us. Our list of allies grows thin."

"And what? My magic shall replace the wizard you lost? I am a lumberer, a scholar. Not a _magician_!"

"Yet you are part of this world now, are you not?" the elf riposted easily. "You did not turn away when Frodo was in danger, when the Nine came to Bree, when it was either death or doom for all if the Ring fell into the hands of the Ringwraiths. You learn our languages by the day, accept our ways, dress as we do. For all of your differences, you have equally made yourself similar."

The lord's words churned in Cameron's head like an insidious poison. Wilhelmina's fortune echoed in her mind like a death knell. _Soon, a wild northern wind will sweep thee westward from the forests thou roam, and many challenges will be placed in thine path. A council of three races, creatures of the deep, the greed of Man, the strife of horses, an attack upon a white mountain from the long arms of black peaks!_

Damn her, damn her! Who else could the wild northern wind be than Strider, the Ranger from the North? She already encountered her first challenge and just barely survived. The Ring that Frodo holds—the Enemy's trinket—is regarded by the people of this world as a terrible item. An ultimate evil. They would surely assemble a council over it, wouldn't they? Three races? Elves, Men, and Dwarves. _Wilhelmina was right on all accounts. My fate has been all but sealed. Lord Elrond is undeniably right._

With dawning horror, Cameron remembers the hag's final foretelling. _Mandos will linger in thine shadow, for thou shalt keep something from him that he was meant to claim. There will come a day when smoke stretches across the horizon while a river of blood flows at thine feet, and Death shall force thee to pay thine dues. On that day, you will again have to choose_.

Jesus fucking Christ, just what the hell will she do? What will she keep from Death that would curse her in such a way? Did… Did the very act of surviving the wraith wounds sentence the young woman to fatalistic ruin?

"Take off my bandages, lord," she said roughly, "And leave me. My mind cannot be changed in a day."

Elrond could see a dismissal when he saw it, and was swift to unwrap her arms. With a short yet polite nod, he exited. The elf was thoughtful enough to shut the door behind him.

Strider stood silent. Cameron contemplated drowning herself in what remained of her oatmeal.

Carefully, the man sat at the edge of her bed. He took away her bowl and set it on the breakfast tray. "Do not judge him for what he said. Like many he fears for the fate of the Free Peoples."

" **I'm not judging him. If anything, Strider, he was being completely forthright.** **A lot of what Wilhelmina told me is just… God, I am so** _fucked!_ " she cried, unable to hide just how discomposed she really was.

" **What? Cameron, what do you mean?** " He startled, face increasingly concerned, hands reaching out. She gripped his hands tightly, her dark eyes wild.

" **I was kicked out of Wilhelmina's boarding house, remember? She gave me the cat and all those damn gifts! When I woke up that morning, the hag appeared carrying this old stone bowl. It had all this junk in it, she read my future from how she scattered it blindly across the floor! I thought she was just fucking with me like she always does; talking nonsense and just filling the air with noise. But she was right, Strider! She was RIGHT!** "

" **What was it then? What did she say?** "

He sounded just as panicked as she was. The man was just as superstitious about fortunes as her; too much of his life was controlled by destiny for him to ignore such things.

" **A wild northern wind would take me away from the forests I roam** ," Cameron recounted, distraught. " **I'd face many challenges placed in my path… A council of three races, creatures of the deep, the greed of Man, the strife of horses, an attack upon a white mountain from the long arms of black peaks… Mandos will linger in thine shadow, for thou shalt keep something from him that he was meant to claim. There will come a day when smoke stretches across the horizon while a river of blood flows at thine feet, and Death shall force thee to pay thine dues. On that day, you will again have to choose.** "

She wrenched her hands away, grabbing the ranger by the shoulders instead and all but shaking him. The fresh discolored black scars from the Morgul blade mocked them. " **Don't you see?! You** _ **are**_ **the northern wind! What is more fitting than a ranger from the North? I have already begun to face challenges; I've fought wraiths and survived the Black Breath. The Ring is here and Elrond is obviously not an idiot. He's going to assemble a council, isn't he? He's going to call upon the three major races of Arda and the fate of that damn trinket will be decided! My whole fucking existence isn't my own anymore! I'm tied to that war Elrond referenced, I'm tied to that Ring!** **I'm damned, fucked, screwed!** _**I don't want a divine purpose or a destined quest! I want to be left alone!**_ "

Strider was beside himself. What could he do with this information, what could he say? He would like to call her friend, but could he trust her to keep secret his identity? Could she be entrusted with the knowledge of his burden, be given some vague sense of comfort that she was not alone? For suddenly, shockingly, it appeared he found another lost soul unable to escape a fate set before them. He was to be the King of Gondor, the one who would bring about the new Age of Men. She was seemingly doomed to fight in the War and possibly die from the choices she dared to make.

Yet he had sixty-seven years to come to terms with his fate. Cameron was sucker-punched in the face with hers.

Ultimately, Strider decided to envelop her in a hug. She stiffened reflexively, then slowly eased into his hold. Her strong, scarred arms gripped him almost too tightly.

"I know we have only met perhaps three weeks ago," he spoke gently yet determinedly, "But in that time I've come to know a woman who does not know the meaning of failure. I couldn't stop you, the Nine couldn't stop you. Elrond himself declared the heart of you a defiant light in these trying times. Why should you let fate hold you back? So you know what is to come: prepare for it. Do not run from it, do not fear it. There is comfort in knowing death. Elves are jealous of Men because of it. They are immortal and ageless while we are born with the understanding that there will be an end.

"And Cameron, Wilhelmina's fortune did not speak of your death," the man pointed out. "It spoke of a choice. And if there is anyone I would trust to make a wise choice, I would name you. You can make the right choice. Have hope in yourself, and have faith in your convictions. They will not lead you astray."

The lumberer was infinitely touched by his sincere words. _Where were you when I was an anxiety-ridden middle schooler? I could have really used five or ten encouraging talks like this._

She took a long breath before letting it out slowly. Repeated the routine for two minutes. Then, Cameron gingerly pulled away.

" **You're right. Nothing was explicitly set in stone. That fortune was just a guideline** ," she said. " **I can make the right choices because I've managed to survive on my own for over two years. I don't let anyone tell me what to do. I exist on my own terms. I've been given an empty book and it's my job to determine its words.** "

Strider smiled widely. " **And so she returns**."

" **I still want to run off to Mithlond, even if that's probably completely against what I should do,** " she warned.

" **As one wise man once said: Wants are not the same as needs. To want is to desire; to need is to live** ," he quoted.

"Christ, **who said that?** "

" **A horribly insufferable noble in Minas Tirith many years ago. I would be glad if I learned he was dead.** "

Cameron choked out a laugh, " **The ranger is vengeful after all!** "

"Hush," he admonished, barely holding back his smile.

"I shall if you get Trepadora and Westron books," she retaliated.

"Oh? Is this what the Lady wishes?" Strider quipped, hopping from the bed and beelining for the door. A pillow hit him square between his shoulders in response to his horrible teasing.

" _Go shove it up your ass!_ "

Jovial laughter echoed in the halls of the Last Homely House as he left.


End file.
